The Spark and the Force
by Problematique
Summary: Sam’s powers attract the attention of a power hungry empath.  He’s unwilling to give Sam up.  But then, so is Dean…
1. Chapter 1

**The Spark and the Force**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **This is going to veer into quite dark territory, with some disturbing imagery and situations. So if you like your Winchesters with a side order of fluff, this probably isn't the fic for you. For those who like Sam in peril, Dean doing everything he can to save him, and a (hopefully) believably sinister bad guy; make yourself comfortable, we're just getting started. In terms of time frame, I place this sometime later on in Season 1 – after Sam is aware of his powers, but before John dies. Yes, John will make an appearance later on, but not for a few chapters.

* * *

**- 1 -**

Arguments between brothers on the road were wholly unavoidable, but inadvisable nonetheless. They often started for oblique, petty reasons, prolonged themselves beyond all reason, and picked up heat through other tiny factors that didn't even belong in the same ballpark. Dean stared across at Sam, refusing to eat the stack of pancakes in front of him, and felt irritation stir inside him again. He kicked his little brother, hard, underneath the diner table.

"Hey, _Sammy_, what do ya say you eat that tasty food I just paid a dollar ninety nine for?"

"You didn't pay for anything, _Dean, _unless you count wallet-stealing as a viable source of income these days."

"So you loaned me a couple of bucks," Dean said, shrugging lazily. "You know I'll hustle it back tonight."

Sam had perfected a number of looks, but 'incredulity' was apparently his favourite. He used it with particular relish, whether the occasion called for it or not. Dean conceded that it probably did call for it now; hustling was still a sore point for both of them, and had been the chief cause behind their latest fall-out.

"Fine. Go and hustle. It's fine, I don't care anymore. Just don't expect me to rush in anymore to back you up. I'm done with your scamming. I've got the bruise to show for it, remember?"

"You can't even _see_ the bruise anymore," Dean muttered. Sam huffed loudly and stood up. Dean yanked at his arm. "Sit! I haven't finished here yet. And neither have you."

Sam sat down gracelessly and drummed his fingers against the table. Finally figuring out that Dean wasn't going to let him leave until he'd eaten something, he began cutting his pancakes with an alarming degree of violence.

"We'll drive to the next town. I'll drop you off at a motel and I'll go get us enough money to, y'know, _pay_ for our accommodation. Then we'll think about another way to earn some money for the time being. Okay?"

Sam ignored him, swallowing the pancakes like they tasted like rubber. Dean hated to witness such obvious disregard for tasty baked goods, but he bit his lip. They ate the rest of their food in silence, listening to the sounds of the diner; the crazy old kook propped up at the counter, telling the bored looking waitress about the time he'd met the President, the pretty college girls in the booth behind Sam, giggling loudly at pictures on an expensive looking camera (Dean had tried and failed to attract their attention, finally declaring them lesbians and giving up), and the hum of the coffee machine as it filled the hot Texan air with strong blasts of a bitter smell. When Dean was in a room, however unthreatening, he accounted for everything; every sight and sound in the vicinity. Which was why he was surprised when a male waiter, of not insubstantial height and build, asked if he was finished, or did he want another refill on his coffee. Dean blinked. Had he fallen asleep? He hadn't even seen this guy approach. Sam was looking up with equal bewilderment.

"No, that's fine," Dean said. He pushed his mug away. "We're just going."

The waiter shrugged and turned away, his wide shoulder brushing against Sam's. Sam jumped slightly in his seat, his eyes brimming with confusion and something else – something Dean didn't recognise.

"Are you okay?" Dean said, leaning forward. Sam stared at him for a second, and then shook his head like he was trying to clear something from it.

"Are we gonna go or what?"

"What happened?"

"What? Dean, let's go. You need a reason to go into big brother mode, okay?"

Sam stood up and looked at Dean expectantly, until Dean followed him, wondering if he'd really seen Sam act – what, _freaked_? – by the apparent touch of a stranger. By the time they'd reached the dusty exterior of the diner he'd forgotten it entirely, and inside the Impala he was simply back to being pissed at Sam – pissed at the sullenness of his little brother, the unreasonable expectations Sam levelled at him, and the weight of responsibility he felt towards him. He glanced sideways at Sam's face, slumped against the car window, and saw the bruise underneath the unruly bangs of hair – it hadn't gone down, and Dean tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach every time Sam pushed his hair to the side to rub at it.

He thought back to the fight. It had started with the hustling, of course. Always the hustling. Usually Sam's job was to pull Dean out of the bar, but this time it had turned nasty, with two guys unwilling to drop it, and a barman who had turned a blind eye. Sam had come out of it the worst. When Dean tried to apologise, Sam had turned his face away and told him to keep driving. They hadn't spoken properly for three days.

"Maybe we could do a paid job next," Dean said quietly. His brother looked at him passively. "We could, maybe. Some little lady getting spooked out in Utah. That sort of thing."

"Sure, if we find one," Sam replied. He didn't sound hopeful. His eyes drooped. Dean put his foot down, the Impala humming happily on the open stretch of road. Dean didn't notice the car directly behind, lights off, keeping up the same steady speed. When he dropped Sam off at the first cheap-looking motel they came across, car door slamming behind him, he didn't notice the vehicle holding back in the shadows.

"Hey!" Dean shouted after Sam. His brother turned around, looking tired. "You better have stopped acting like a brat by the time I get back, okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes at this final dig and stomped into the motel lobby. Dean pulled away. The car in the shadows stayed put.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Spark and the Force – Chapter 2**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Thank you to those who reviewed the first chapter – I'm glad you seem to be enjoying the story! Not much to say about Chapter 2. Hopefully you'll like it, and if you do, don't forget to let me know. :)

* * *

"Hi," Sam said, waving one hand in front of the closed eyes of the old guy snoring behind the motel front desk. The man yawned widely, propped open one eye and grunted loudly. Sam smiled optimistically. "Do you have a twin room going spare?"

The man shifted lazily in his chair, taking his time to check the empty looking book. "Two beds?"

"Yeah, my brother will be along in a couple of hours."

"Fifty dollars," the man said, holding his hand out.

"Um, about that…"

"Look, kid, I'm not running a youth hostel here. I got paying customers needing rooms. Run along, will ya?"

Sam resisted the urge to comment on the apparent lack of customers of any sort, let alone the paying kind. "I've got twenty, and my brother will pay the rest when he comes along," Sam said. He opened his eyes widely, knowing this usually had an effect on women of all ages, but unsure if Mr Sleepy here would fall for the same ploy.

"Your brother's got two hours to get back, otherwise I'm kicking your skinny ass out, okay?"

"Thank you," Sam said, smiling sincerely. The guy grabbed the money off him, eyed it suspiciously, and handed over a dog-eared key card.

"Name?"

"Sam Winchester," Sam answered, mentally kicking himself in the same breath it slipped out. That was a rookie mistake, giving your real name in a seedy little motel like this. Dean would almost certainly have something to say about it.

The old guy wrote it down, nodded, and slumped back in his chair. He was asleep immediately. Sam blinked a couple of times, envying this capability, and made his way to their first-floor room.

It was a humid, uncomfortable night, with low stars freckling the cityscape. Sam dumped his bag on the floor, took out the laptop and started to look for promising leads in Texas. A grave robber in Ackerly, a suspicious murder in Houston… like any state, Texas had its fair share of unsettling activity.

Within twenty minutes, Sam's eyes were drooping heavily. He stripped off his jeans and t-shirt, flicked the light switch, and fell asleep above the covers.

* * *

Dean whistled happily as he pulled into the car park of Buffalo Motel, earlier bad mood all but dissipated with the arrival of a few hundred dollars in his pocket, alongside a pretty waitress's phone number, and the warmth of five whiskey shooters in his stomach.

First thing he'd do, wake up Sammy and tell him he was sorry for acting like a jerk. Then use Sam's inevitable pissiness at getting woken up as an excuse to go look up Cindy. He was wired now; ready for a bit of action. "A bit of Cindy action," he chuckled to himself. "Bring it on."

The motel owner was sound asleep in a comfy looking chair behind the grey desk. "Hey, _hey_," Dean shook him. The man woke up muttering. "Someone checked in earlier. Sam?"

"Sure." The man nodded, pointing at his book. "They're both in there, but if you wanna stay here, you gotta book another room, cos I can't have three of you in the same room."

It took Dean two seconds to digest this new piece of information fully. "There's someone in there with Sam?"

"His brother, right? Yup, says here; Dean."

"_I'm _Dean!" Dean pointed out urgently. "What room?" he asked. He leant forward, grabbing the old guy by the shoulders. "_What room_?!"

"Two! But you can't… hey! You can't –"

Dean moved with the speed he reserved purely for saving his trouble-magnet little brother's ass. Slamming himself against the door to room two, he was relieved to find it open. He flicked on the light, expecting the worst. But Sam was asleep – or rather, waking up at the sudden disturbance. Dean drew a knife when he saw a figure in the chair opposite Sam's bed, looking at Dean with trepidation.

"Oh God," the man spoke. He stepped out of the shadows, and Dean realised it was the waiter from the diner. He held up his knife. "Please, don't kill me!"

"Get the fuck away from that bed," Dean whispered. Sam was waking up slowly, rubbing at his eyes.

"What's going on?" he asked. He blinked, and then looked from Dean to the intruder with wide eyes. "Who's that?"

"Get away from that bed," Dean growled again. The man nodded, walking towards Dean with his hands splayed beside his head. "Now, asshole, who the fuck are you?"

"My name's Robert. Rob Taylor. I'm, well…"

"You got two seconds, Rob," Dean said, knife firm in his hand. "Let's hear it, before I fuck you up a bit. Or a lot. I'm not really sure yet."

"Dean," Sam said warningly. "Let him talk."

"He was in here, Sam, just _watching_ you. Asshole could have done anything. Fuck, what kind of sick freak are you?"

"I'm a hunter," Rob said, and Dean's jaw dropped slightly. He glanced over at Sam, who was pulling on his jeans, looking pale. Dean moved towards Rob, who promptly took a step back. "Please, just… lower that. I'm not armed. And don't you think if I'd wanted to hurt your brother, I'd have done it by now? I've been here for half an hour."

Dean gripped the knife tighter, keeping it level to Rob's neck. "You haven't answered me yet, freak. What are you doing here?"

Rob looked over at Sam, who was on both feet now, ready to pull himself into a fighting stance. Then he looked back at Dean, and Dean's knife, and swallowed tightly.

"When I say I'm a hunter… well, my dad is. I was. I haven't done it for years. Hence the crappy diner job. Dad didn't _like_ it very much when I told him I was quitting. But there was something about you two, when I saw you, and I figured you could be like me. So I followed you back here, and saw the name. Winchester. Dad used to talk about you guys – especially John Winchester. Take it that's your father?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. Dean looked at him warningly.

"There are other ways to introduce yourself. _This_," he gestured round the room, finally pointing at Sam, "isn't it. You couldn't have pissed me off quicker if you tried."

"I'm sorry," Rob said. He started to lower his hands, but brought them back up when Dean raised the knife warningly. "I was going to say something at the diner, but people listen, you know? There didn't seem to be a good time."

"So, you followed us here, watched him sleeping, risked getting yourself killed. If you don't mind my asking, Rob, what the _hell_ for?"

"I need your help," Rob said. "My girlfriend went missing a couple of weeks ago. There's no sign of her, and I've just got a _feeling_ it's something supernatural. No trace, no suspects, nothing. And it's been so long," he added miserably, "that I'm out of practice. I need somebody more experienced to help me."

Dean snorted. He looked over at Sam who was no longer looking scared, but rather concerned; eyes staring at Dean pleadingly. Oh, of _course_, Dean thought to himself. An ex-hunter who doesn't get on with his dad, a missing girlfriend… Sam's gonna be all over this one

"Get out," Dean said. "Go home. I wanna talk to my brother."

"Can I come back?" Rob asked hopefully. Dean opened his mouth to say something suitably dismissive, but Sam quickly stepped in.

"Tomorrow morning." He glared at Dean. "See you then."

"Okay," Rob said, smiling for the first time. "I'll be here. Thank you." He brushed past Dean as he let himself out, shoulders almost a head taller. Dean slammed the door shut, looked over at Sam and lowered the knife.

"You are in _so_ much trouble, Sammy."

"I'm sorry, okay? I don't know why I didn't hear him. I was tired, and…"

"And? You signed in as _Winchester_. You didn't salt the entrance…"

"When do you ever do that?" Sam pointed out reasonably. Dean held up a finger to silence him.

"And, yeah, you didn't _hear_ an intruder. You just slept right through. Fuck, Sam, I can't be here to look after you all the time!"

"I know," Sam nodded. "I screwed up. But it's fine. We can trust him, Dean."

"What? How do you know that? This guy could be anybody. We don't know shit about him."

"But he knew us, right? That's why he was here. And he needs our help, Dean. We've gotta help him. You know we do."

"We don't gotta do anything. In fact, I think we're gonna get the hell out of here. Tonight. I don't care about this guy, or his dead girlfriend. The whole thing just sounds like trouble."

"Well I'm staying," Sam said, his voice cracking. Dean noticed how tired and miserable he looked, and felt a pang of guilt explode in his chest. "And I'd appreciate it if you did too. Now, I'm going to sleep. And I _am_ gonna be here in the morning, Dean. I told him we would be."

His tone left no room for arguments. Dean slumped in the chair Rob had previously vacated, staring over at his little brother. "I'm hardly gonna drive off without you, idiot."

"I know," Sam yawned. He climbed gratefully into bed. "I'd steal your car keys before you got the chance."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 3**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Hmm, so Rob isn't very popular with you guys… Any chance this chapter is going to endear him to you? Let's see, shall we? ;) And if you're enjoying the story, please tell me! It really makes me smile to see a nice review. :)

* * *

Sam was in the shower when Dean woke up the next morning. His head felt groggy from the remains of whiskey floating about listlessly. He yawned, stretched and turned over, ready for another half hour of sleep at least. Someone banged on the door.

From Dean's experience, it was usually a disgruntled motel owner, ready to chuck them out, but then he remembered the events of last night, coming back like a drop kick to his stomach, and he sat up, eyes adjusting to the half-hearted sunlight infiltrating the room. He checked the alarm by his bed – not even _eight_ yet – and considered ignoring this annoyance until it went away. But maybe it was time to have a word with this creep right now. Clear up any _misunderstandings_.

Rob was looking nervous on the other side of the door, shifting from one foot to the other. He was, Dean guessed, about Dean's age – maybe older, with close cropped brown hair, grey eyes, and pale, freckled skin. The only thing notable about his appearance was his build; tall, wide, but not overweight, it looked like he worked out a lot. He didn't look like an ex-hunter; didn't look like anything, really, except a pain in Dean's ass.

"Oh, hi, I didn't wake you, did I?" Rob asked, looking down at Dean's threadbare t-shirt and boxers. Dean smirked sarcastically, looked away, and Rob took a step towards the door. Dean had him against the outside wall in a second, one hand gripping his neck, forcing his cheek sideways towards the crumbling brick, the other round his struggling left arm.

"You _ever_ give me reason to fear for my little brother's safety, and I will fucking _hurt_ you. Do you understand?"

"Please!" Rob squeaked. "I'm sorry." His voice came out in thick, high gasps. "I wouldn't hurt Sam, I promise!"

"Of course you wouldn't, because that would be _stupid_. And you're not stupid, are you, Rob Taylor?"

"No," Rob breathed out, as Dean's grip eased up. "Apart from that stunt last night. That was stupid."

"That _was_ stupid," Dean agreed, patting Rob with some force on the side of his face. "Glad we have an understanding, buddy."

"So are you going to help me find Natalie?" Rob asked, rubbing at his neck. Dean couldn't think of anything he'd like to do less, and was about to tell Rob as much when Sam stuck his head round the door, hair still wet from the shower, and glared at Dean balefully.

"Why don't you come in?" Dean muttered. He pushed Sam as he stomped inside. Sam promptly turned around and pushed Dean back, then smiled at the pettiness of their actions. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I guess the best place to start is with you telling us anything you can about your girlfriend –"

"Natalie," Rob finished the sentence. "Sure."

He took a seat opposite Sam, tapped his hands against his legs a couple of times, then shrugged nervously, like he was in an interview. "Where should I start?"

"How about when she disappeared?" Dean pointed out, not unreasonably, he felt. Sam sighed, smiled apologetically at Rob, and nodded at him to go on.

"Well, she – we work in the diner together. I've been with her a year, just over. She's twenty-five, a year younger than me – and beautiful. Really beautiful. I fell for her instantly. She doesn't get on with her folks, but she wouldn't leave without telling _me_. So, two weeks ago, she finished her shift early because she wasn't feeling well. She told me she was going to go back to the apartment we share. We live near the diner, in Atlanta. I told her I'd see her in a few hours. When I got home, about two am, she wasn't there."

"And breathe," Dean muttered to himself.

"Did she drive or walk?"

"We share a car. She took it, I walked."

"When you say she was sick – "

"Headache."

Dean, who had been pacing the length of the room, stopped at this. "You said it was something supernatural. But this seems pretty open and closed to me. Pretty girl, not feeling well, driving home late at night. Hate to say it, Rob, but –"

"There's been no sign of her," Rob said firmly. "They haven't found her car, nothing. No trace. I know what you're thinking, but if she'd been raped, murdered, they'd have found her by now. There's one road she'd have taken; the diner is a ten minute drive from our house." His voice, nervous and awkward before, had taken on a urgent, violent quality. Dean glanced over at Sam, who was looking stricken, and very, very upset. He tried to catch his eye, but Sam looked away angrily.

"We'll help you find her. We'll start at the diner and trace her steps."

"This is ridiculous," Dean said angrily. "Sam, this is a case for the police, not for us. There's _nothing_ to suggest this was the work of anyone but a carjacker."

"There's one more thing," Rob said, standing up. He looked over at Dean, grey eyes impenetrable. "All her things had gone from the apartment. I know what you're thinking: she came home, got her stuff, and left. But I'm talking about _everything_. Every sign of her, every strand of her blonde hair in my hairbrush, the notes she had wrote me, the lipstick marks on the glasses she had drunk from that morning. It was like she'd never even lived there." At this he breathed throatily, making his way to the door. "I thought you could help me, but I don't want to cause any problems. It's been two weeks. I doubt I'm gonna get her back."

"We'll help you," Sam promised. Dean shook his head. "We'll be out in a minute."

Sam saw Rob to the door, closing it softly behind him. He turned to look at Dean expectantly, raising one eyebrow. Dean let out a cold bark of a laugh. "What? Like anything I say is going to change your mind. Look, Sammy, go knock yourself out with this one. I'm gonna stay here and look for an actual job."

"Why are you being like this? All her stuff missing, Dean – doesn't that sound like the work of _something_ supernatural? Maybe a trickster, or…"

"Why? Do you need me to spell it out? I. Don't. _Like_. Him. I don't trust him. I don't like the fact that he was watching you sleep. I don't like how rehearsed his story is. Oh, what, you _didn't_ notice that? He may as well have had an autocue in front of him. I especially don't like the difference in the way he looks at us. I don't like the way he looks at _you_."

"You're being paranoid."

"It's a good job that one of us is."

"So you're not going to help?"

"See ya later, Sam. I'd take some protection if I were you."

"Can I have the Impala?"

"Dream on."

"You're such a jerk." Sam retrieved the knife from underneath Dean's pillow, slipping it into his back pocket. "I'll be back later."

"Just… phone, me, okay? If anything goes wrong," Dean said, anxiety taking hold of him like a downpour of rain. _Why aren't I going with him_, he thought. _Why the fuck am I letting him go off with a stranger?_

Sam nodded, pulled on a long-sleeved t-shirt and looked over at Dean one last time. Dean turned his face to the computer screen.

As soon as Sam had closed the door, Dean felt another blossom of panic rise in his chest. He wanted to drag Sam back inside, handcuff him to the bed if that's what it took. But he couldn't. Couldn't… what? Give in? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Then he clicked onto the internet and typed 'Rob Taylor Texas Atlanta' into Google.

* * *

Rob was waiting outside, leaning against his beaten up Honda. He smiled indulgently when he saw Sam. "Where's Dean?"

"He's got some stuff to do here."

"Oh, okay. I hope I didn't cause any problems?"

"No, he just needs to blow off some steam. Are we taking this car?"

"Yeah. She's looking kind of shabby, but she's served me well over the years."

It wasn't until Sam had closed the car door that he thought back to Rob's story. _"We share a car. She took it, I walked." _Sam looked over at Rob, eyes wide. Rob was staring at him, looking angry with himself. He grabbed Sam's arm, and Sam felt something shoot through him. His mind went blank. When he refocused, Rob was already pulling away.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 4**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Wow, thank you for the enthusiastic response to Chapter 3! I hope this one answers some of your questions (though hopefully not too many; I wouldn't want to give away too much at this point in time!) For those of you confused about Dean's actions… well, you're in good company. :D And as for what Rob wants with Sam… that _would_ be telling!

As always, reviews are most welcome! I'd love to know what you think of this chapter...

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Twenty minutes after Dean had heard Rob's car pull full-throttle away from the motel, fifteen minutes after Dean had tried – and failed – to get some kind of idea of who Rob Taylor was through the internet, two minutes after he had climbed into the shower, hot water cascading blissfully over his shoulders, Dean experienced a sensation exactly like a blanket being whipped off from over his head.

He slipped under the stream of water, hands gripping the side of the tub, breathing heavily as the events of the morning came through in crystal clarity.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, where the fuck are you?" he groaned to himself. He scooted out from the bathtub, tugging on mismatched clothes before he was even dry. He'd let Sam go with this guy. Even though he didn't trust Rob, even though nothing about his story added up; _why_? Why had he let Sam go? Grabbing the car keys, he raced out to the Impala, trying to collect his thoughts.

It was almost like he'd given up on Sam. That's what it had felt like. Like someone had told him to forget his brother, to concentrate on his own priorities. A sickening, churning feeling in Dean's stomach complemented the foggy headache that had been developing all morning. A feeling surrounding Rob; that he was trouble, bad news. _Evil_. Dean took a couple of seconds to rest his head against the sun-warmed metal of the car. He turned around and hawked out a mouthful of bile. Something had lifted. The blanket had lifted. Dean forced himself into the car, started up the engine and slid the wheel into a sharp reverse. He hoped to God that they had started out at the diner.

* * *

"Are you okay? You're a little pale," Rob asked, eyes focused on the road ahead of them. Sam looked across at him, blinking. 

"It's probably just the heat."

"Yeah, it gets pretty warm, even at this time of the morning." He leant across and wound down Sam's window. Then he grinned widely. "That's all the air-con you're gonna get in here, I'm afraid."

"So are we going to head to the diner? We can trace Natalie's -"

"I'm not sure that's a great idea. I don't want Cathy asking questions. She's my boss, and… y'know. She probably won't take kindly to us poking around in there when she's trying to serve."

"Okay," Sam nodded. Rob took his hand off the steering wheel again, bringing it over to Sam's shoulder. He squeezed gently, and Sam felt his eyes roll back into darkness, but then something really fucking_ good_ appeared in the pit of his stomach. Light came streaming back into his vision, disorientating him. Rob's hand was still there.

"Tell me about yourself, Sammy."

"Myself?" Sam squirmed in his seat. _What's happening?_ he thought blearily _This isn't right._

"But don't lie. I'll know if you're lying."

_How?_ He felt himself struggle, but Rob's hand stayed put, closing in until it became a grip. "Get off me," he gasped, and then he felt a shudder tear through his body, and that amazing, lucid feeling in the pit of his stomach, sliding like ice cream into the centre of his nerve system. He could hear Rob from far away, talking slowly, and he tried to shake his head, to clear it, but there were a hundred things buzzing round in there, and he couldn't pick any of them out specifically.

"So? Do you think anyone will miss you?"

"What?" Sam tried to claw at his seat, but his hands were pressed to his side.

"I thought that Dean wanted to protect you, but then he let you leave with me. Maybe he's sick of you?"

"No," Sam groaned. He couldn't let this happen. This feeling – _this_ was wrong. He pushed back, and he felt Rob's grip leave his shoulder, and then his whole body swerved. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that he realised the car was at the side of the dust track, gas coming out of the engine, and Rob was staring at him with undisguised joy.

"Do that again," he ordered. He reached his hand out for the second time, but Sam swung open the car door, falling clumsily before slamming the rusted metal shut with his legs. He tried to make himself move, but felt drained. His head fell against the dust and gravel. Rob appeared above him, frowning slightly. "We're going to have to work on your stamina."

He leant down, as if he was going to haul Sam's whole body up, but instead he grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, pulling him so their faces were almost touching. "Who are you?" Sam asked, breath shallow underneath Rob's gaze. Rob smiled and brought one hand up to touch his cheek. Sam immediately felt his chest seize up again, the darkness filling his vision like a total eclipse.

"I'm nobody," Rob's voice echoed through the haze. "But with you? Oh, Sammy. We're gonna set this whole goddamn city on fire."

Sam turned his head to the side as he felt Rob's hand work his way up until he had two clumps of Sam's hair, and Sam's eyes snapped open. He saw Rob looking down at him predatorily, and felt rebellion piston his body. He kicked his legs out and used his arms to lever himself forward, temporarily catching Rob off-guard. When he was free from his grip, he scooted back and up, rooting his feet to the ground. The road was empty; he guessed Rob had picked this route deliberately.

"Sammy –"

"Don't you _dare_ call me that."

"Sammy, I want you to get back in the car." Rob's voice was perfectly controlled, a smoother accent coming through than the Texan drawl Sam had become familiar with. He took a step forward, as Sam stumbled back.

"You have to touch me. That's it, isn't it? You're controlling me somehow. But only when you touch me."

"Get in the car."

"I think your car is busted," Sam said simply. He took the knife out from his back pocket. "And you're not getting close enough to make me."

"That was a mistake."

The knife flew out of Sam's hand and rolled a few times on the floor, landing by Rob's feet. He bent down, picked it up and examined the curved framework, then looked up at Sam, grey eyes sparkling as they ran up and down the length of Sam's body. "Pretty. Quite sharp, I'd imagine. I could have fun with this."

_Fuck_, Sam thought to himself. He surveyed the surrounding area, eyes settling on a thicket of trees framing the roadside. Rob followed his gaze.

"Gonna run away from me? Well, you're unarmed, you don't know what I'm capable of. It _might_ be your best chance. Or you could just do what the _fuck_ I tell you," he spat out, expression darkening.

Sam decided to take his best chance.

The trees scraped against his skin as he ran directionless through them, hearing nothing but his own heavy footsteps and breathing. Eventually he swung round to the back of a tall oak, peering over his shoulder to ascertain Rob's position. He couldn't see him, nor hear him. The air was quiet. He gulped a handful of air, looked to the other side and then took in his surrounding area, trying to find a weapon of some kind; at the very least a defence against a likely attack. He had to get a grip on himself. Rob had left him feeling drained, terrified – and he had no idea why.

"Sammy!" The voice cut through the trees, and Sam braced himself, ready for flight. The voice cried out again, more urgently, and Sam realised who it belonged to.

"Dean," he called. "Dean, I'm here!"

Dean found him within seconds. He lowered his shot gun, pushed Sam against the tree and immediately began to check his face for injuries. Sam shook him off. "He didn't hurt me. How did you find us?"

"Dude needs to sort his car out. He was dripping oil from the motel all the way here."

"Thank God." Sam slumped his head against Dean's shoulder. "I don't know what he is, Dean, but he's not –"

"Human? Are you sure?" Rob asked. Their shouts had given them away. He was standing a small distance away from them, knife in hand. Dean shoved Sam back. "What, you're protecting him now, Dean? You didn't seem to give a crap earlier."

"Bite me," Dean said, taking a step forward. "I don't know what the hell you did –"

"I didn't really do anything," Rob shrugged. "Not yet. Now, if you'll just step aside, please. I'm not done with your brother."

"Oh, you are _really_ pissing me off," Dean growled. He lifted the shot gun, took aim, and fired a round of rock salt at Rob's chest. Rob fell to the floor, curled up in pain, and Dean strode over to him.

"So what is he? He's still alive."

"Human," Sam said, bewildered. "He must be. But he was telekinetic, Dean, and -" he didn't get any further. He fell to the floor, gripping his head, as Dean stooped to hold him firmly, pushing hair from his eyes.

"Not now, Sammy, come _on_!"

"Get me away from him," Sam begged through frantic breaths. Dean looked over at Rob, lowered Sam to the ground, and picked up his gun. He unloaded another two rounds of rocksalt into Rob's chest, as Sam continued to scream.

Dean half dragged, half carried his brother back to the roadside. He wanted to go back, make sure the job was finished, but Sam's face was twisted in a brutal kind of pain, and Dean knew that he needed to get him away – as far away as possible. He looked back, head pounding at the thought of leaving this freak here, potentially alive. But Dean had to refocus. Sam needed his help.

"It's okay, Sammy," he said, holding onto his brother's shirt as he hauled him into the back seat of the car, hating the way Sam felt so loose-limbed underneath him. "He's gone. We're getting the hell out of here. Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 5**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **A bit of down-time for the boys in this chapter – the action will pick up again pretty soon, but for now – enjoy a little brotherly interaction, and a bit of groundwork for the rest of the story.

* * *

The Impala was halfway to Houston, throttling down the highway to the lights of the big city, when Sam's pain began to subside, and Dean began to ease up the gas a little. As Sam climbed through to the front seat, Dean exhaled heavily, feeling absently like he'd held his breath for the entire half hour journey. 

"I'm taking you to a hospital," he said. Sam shook his head.

"No, you're getting us out of Texas. I mean it, Dean. The only thing I need is distance between me and –" Sam bought both hands to his face, tiredly rubbing at his eyes until they were red. "Please?"

"I'm not running away from him, Sam. I want to get you somewhere safe, and then -"

"Dean, you're not _listening_. We need to get away from him. We don't know what we're up against. We need to regroup." He leant his head back and looked up at the roof, breathing heavily.

"I don't need to regroup. I'm ready for him."

"Dean –"

Dean banged hard on the steering wheel, voice rising to an impatient bellow. A car honked loudly as the Impala swerved. "Just do what I say, for once in your life! Goddamn it, Sam!" He swallowed away the lump in his throat, cringing when Sam's mouth snapped shut, his body shifting towards the car window. "And _please_ don't start sulking. I need you to tell me what he did to you."

Sam laughed hollowly. Dean tried to block out the sound, so far away from Sam's usual dorky giggle. "Will you listen? Or will you just use it as an excuse to feed your alpha male rage?"

"Stop being a smart-ass. I –" He stopped mid-sentence. Sam was resting his head against the window, shaking softly. Dean reached his hand out. "You look really bad, Sam. I need to get you –" As he tried to touch Sam's shoulder, Sam shifted further away, eyes darting sideways to focus on him.

"Don't," he said, and – _Jesus Christ_ – it wasn't an instruction, it was a plea. Dean checked the traffic flow behind him, signalled and pulled into the next lay-by. He let the engine hum for a while, unsure what Sam needed from him. Finally he shut the Impala down.

"What did he do to you?" he asked softly. Sam shook his head. "Sam, please. I can't do this if you close off. I can't."

"Are you mad at me?" Sam asked quietly.

"What do you think? I'm mad with _him_," Dean spat the word out, "and I'm mad at myself for… the whole thing. You? I just wish you'd fucking do what I told you once in a while. But I've been wishing that since you were, like, two. So, y'know… I'm used to _that_."

"But it wasn't your fault. He did something to you, didn't he?"

"Maybe. Yeah, probably."

"He did something to me, too," Sam said. He shrugged, like he was trying to brush the weight of the memory off, like that was an easy thing to accomplish, but his shoulders still sagged. "I don't know what, Dean."

"Just try to…" Dean watched a couple of cars fly past. "I dunno. Try to describe it."

"He touched me," Sam said, and Dean's stomach dropped like a stone. He reached forward for the wheel, and Sam looked round frantically. "Not like _that_. Just my shoulder, my face – but it felt like… electricity."

"It hurt?"

"No. It felt –" Sam opened his mouth, almost immediately closing it. Dean tried to reach him with his eyes, but Sam had gone in on himself again, body hunched over. He studied his legs. "And then he took the knife off me, just made it fly over to him. So we know that about him."

"But he didn't try to take the gun off me," Dean pointed out, "even though he had the opportunity."

"It doesn't add up," Sam agreed. "That's why I don't want you to go after him. We don't know what he wants, Dean. We –"

"He wants _you_," Dean said. He felt clear-cut white rage flash through his head that scared him like nothing else. "And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let that son of a bitch just take you again."

"You might have killed him. You shot him with a round of rocksalt – "

"Three rounds."

Sam smiled at this, the corners of the mouth turning up just enough for Dean to see his Sammy in there. "Three rounds. That's my big brother."

"I'll go and put another three rounds in his head, Sam. I mean it. He's gonna be there still."

"No," Sam said firmly. "Dean, please. It's not worth going back. We could be halfway across the country by tomorrow. Take it in turns driving? He's not going to find us."

"I need to make sure," Dean said. Sam groaned loudly, and Dean knew by the stiffening of his body that he was going to try a different tact.

"Okay, Dean, you can go back and shoot him. But I am _not_ leaving you. I mean it. You'll have to take me back with you, even though I'll probably start screaming and clutching at my head somewhere around the twenty mile mark. That's pretty annoying, right? You hate it when I do that. So… make a decision." He folded his arms across his chest, looking pleased with himself.

"I choose strangulation."

"You're gonna _strangle_ him?"

"I'm gonna strangle _you_, moron." Dean said, scowling darkly. Sam bit his lip, waiting for Dean's answer. "Fine, fine. I'm not taking you back there, just like you know I won't. So we better _drive_." He started up the engine.

"He's probably dead, Dean. And if he isn't, he's not going to find us."

"He better be dead," Dean muttered, pulling back out onto the road. "Three fucking rounds of rocksalt. That's a lot of ammo."

"Was it worth it?"

"Every shot."

Sam smiled, finally relaxing into his seat. Dean needed the same closure. "Sam, if we're not going after him – just tell me one thing. 'Cos Rob freaked you out, and you don't get freaked out easily. So how did it _really_ feel when he touched you?"

There was a long silence. Dean was close to letting the sentence hang unanswered, when Sam said quietly, "It felt like I was connected to him. He could see all of me, inside me, and I couldn't stop him. And -" his voice shook, and Dean began to wish he'd never asked. "It felt _good_, Dean. Like… all this energy. A force. I couldn't think of anything but the way it made me feel." He looked over at Dean, and his eyes were wide and pleading. _For what?_ Dean wondered. _Reassurance?_

"It's over now," he said, lamely, and Sam nodded silently. "Get some sleep. You can drive in a few hours."

* * *

Sam dreamt. He was underwater, head rolling backwards, trying to reach the top. And something, _someone_ had a hold of his ankle, as the sun bloomed out and sunk below the water, plunging his vision into darkness. He was being dragged down further, and then the sparks appeared, illuminating particles of water against his skin. Sam screamed silently, trying to find the light source, to find help. The hands encircling his ankle worked their way up, until his hips were covered, and then his abdomen, and his shoulders. 

Sam looked into Rob's face, light hitting his cold eyes like specks of upturned gravel on the roadside. Rob smiled, unseeing, and held up Sam's hands to his face. Sparks, _sparks_ were coming from Sam. Rob's voice was clear, just a whisper in Sam's ear.

"I am coming back for you, Sammy. I'm not done with you. And you? You want _this_."

He shuddered awake. Dean – in an uncharacteristic act of thoughtfulness – had turned the radio down to the lowest volume setting. "You okay?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"I'll drive now," he said. It sounded too quick, too rushed. Dean proceeded to yawn gratefully.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 6**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **I've started my summer job, so updates won't be quite as forthcoming as previous chapters – I'm aiming for a new chapter every three or four days, as I want to ensure that my writing isn't too rushed and nonsensical. :)

Also, please heed the initial warnings; things are going to start getting quite dark from this chapter onwards. I hope you continue to enjoy, and apologise in advance if you're upset or put off by any future events. But remember: not everything is as it seems!

* * *

Ghost hunting, as a rule, could get pretty boring when the ghost refused to make an appearance in its allocated haunting timeslot. Dean stretched his arms out, mouldy wooden floor creaking disapprovingly at the sudden movement, and gave Sam a hard shove on the arm. Sam blinked awake, looking disappointed.

"Dude, when are you gonna start sleeping when you're supposed to?" Dean asked. Sam fixed him with a _don't-go-there_ look, stood up to stretch his freaky-long legs, and stared up at the slats of moonlight creeping through the boarded up windows.

"Maybe we should go back for the night," he suggested. "It doesn't look like its coming."

"Oh, she'll come," Dean said. He shouted out to the beamers. "You're just checking me out, aren't you, sweetheart?"

"You're not expecting an answer?"

"She isn't speaking to me," Dean sighed. "Typical woman."

The spirit of a prostitute murdered in the now derelict Colorado brothel, Judy Tabor was systematically shredding the intestines of horny teenagers creeping into the building for some nooky. They were mostly keeping away now, of course, but there were always the odd thrill-seeker to account for. Dean cocked his shotgun again, itching for some sport. Sam felt the familiar enclosure of sleep fill his retinas, even whilst standing. He shook it off, staring imploringly at Dean. It had no effect.

"Wanna play shadow puppets?" Dean asked. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean looked momentarily hurt. "You're just afraid of my Velociraptor."

"The one that looks like a bunny rabbit?"

"Oh, you did _not_, bitch."

A gust of wind blew one of the nailed shutters open. They looked up at the same time, Dean rising to his feet, gun in hand. He heard a creak behind him and spun round. A rat scuttled across the floor and he grimaced at the sight of it, turning his attention back to a pissed off spirit, and Sam only _now_ reacting, the Beretta shaking slightly in his hands as he took aim. The spirit rushed forward; a pretty, silvery shape in shapeless, revealing clothes that hung loosely from her hollow frame. "Are you like _him_?" she asked, tipping Sam over and ripping his shirt in one swift motion. Dean took aim at the back of her head, fired once, and growled angrily as she disappeared and then reappeared on top of Sam, apparently determined to liberate him of his clothing. And possibly more important possessions. Sam screamed as Judy Tabor began to claw at his skin. Dean fired, and this time the shot took; the back of her head crumbled, and Sam stopped screaming. Dean fired once more, and the ghost crumbled into ash.

"Guess she preferred you," Dean said, as Sam stumbled to his feet, brushing remains off his body. "Or not, as the case might be."

"Dean –" Sam looked down to the ground. "I'm sorry. That was a pretty poor effort from my side."

"Getting kind of used to it." Dean waved his hand dismissively. "No sweat, I got her. Easy pickings. Let's just get back to the hotel. Patch you up and then… all y'need is a good night's sleep."

The words were there, unspoken, as they climbed into the Impala. Sam wouldn't sleep. Not for a whole night. Not even for a few hours. Not since Texas. Dean had even slid a bottle of pills over to his brother in a diner one night, bracing himself for the reaction. But Sam had just pushed them back, looking upset. They hadn't spoken about it since.

_I'm worried about you_, Dean wanted to say. _I want you to open up to me_. Sam drifted in and out of sleep on the car journey, and then spent two hours kicking his legs and arms out on the too-small motel bed. Dean couldn't keep awake any longer.

When he woke the next morning, Sam was on the laptop, dark rings under his eyes illuminated by the glare from the screen. He was showered and dressed, wet hair clinging to the nape of his neck.

"Teenagers disappearing in Limon?"

"Sick of missing teenagers. Got anything juicy? Werewolves?"

"I'll keep looking." Sam started typing again. Dean resisted the urge to mess up his hair as he walked past, knowing Sam would just shrink away.

Once in the bathroom, Dean turned on the shower, resting his head against the cool tile. The ancient water work system churned and creaked, spitting out lukewarm water. The flow of it just about drowned out Dean's long scream of frustration.

* * *

The original plan had been to just not sleep – not for any real period of time, anyway, because Rob would only appear when he was feeling safe and warm within his dreams, within himself. Now it didn't make any difference. Rob was everywhere; in most people he saw, in his absent, unconscious thoughts, and in the corner of his eye, almost every time he opened them. And each time, like a kid's toy with the string pulled out; '_I'm coming back for you,_ _Sammy_.'

And now Sam was afraid of sleep. He drank endless coffee, black, like the spots in front of his eyes, and napped in the Impala, and haltingly replayed Rob's full-bodied, emotionless voice to keep him awake at night. He'd even started sneaking out during these hours, after he was sure Dean would sleep through until the morning. He didn't go anywhere, just walked, to feel the breeze against his skin, to breathe in the smoke and fumes of the cities they passed through. One night in Minnesota it began to rain, and Sam stood in the middle of the empty road, letting it pour down, through his hair, seeping into his clothes, down his collar to the small of his back. For a few minutes he was alive again, aware of his senses, and then the rain stopped as quickly as it started, and the world went black. He woke up a little while later, still in the empty road, an ache in the back of his head and his back.

When Dean told him he didn't want him on the next hunt, he wasn't surprised, or angry, or relieved. He just nodded, and that's when Dean exploded.

"I've had it, Sam!"

"I'm agreeing with you," Sam said. "I _should_ stay here. What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to fucking _react_." Dean ran his hand over the back of his neck, sucking in his breath. "You're a corpse, Sam. You're like a walking, talking dead person."

"I'm sorry."

Dean swung out blindly, knocking a lamp off the table. It flickered, and the bulb died slowly. Sam watched it with fascination.

"_Look_ at me."

"I can't," Sam admitted. "Dean, you should just go. You're too angry."

"Not until…" Dean rummaged through his luggage, coming out with the bottle Sam had assumed he'd thrown away. He shrunk back. "Not until you take two of these."

"No," Sam said. "You can't _make_ me."

Something inside Dean must have snapped, because he pushed Sam against the wall, and fiddled clumsily with the lid as his elbows kept Sam in place. Sam was too tired to break free, but he found himself shaking at Dean's touch – the first time Dean had touched him for any length of time since Rob - and Dean was looking sick as he shook the pills into his hand, bringing them up to Sam's mouth as Sam inclined his head to the side. He pushed out, and Dean stumbled backwards.

"Don't touch me." Sam's voice shook. "You bastard. I _hate_ you."

"We're not kids anymore," Dean said, managing a wry smile which, to Sam's eyes, only looked desperate. "I could take offence to that."

"Good! _Go_! I don't fucking _care_ anymore."

"I'm gonna phone dad," Dean said quietly. "Can't do this, Sam. Can't pretend nothing's wrong."

"Phone dad and I'm leaving. I mean it. I'll just keep walking, Dean, and you won't see me again."

"Then tell me what to do, Sammy!" Dean pleaded. "I'm trying. Goddamn, I'm trying so hard to understand you, but ever since Texas…"

Sam sat on the bed, his back to Dean. He had no strength for this, no strength to bring up Rob, and what happened between them. He knew that was what Dean wanted to ask; any detail Sam might have missed; anything to explain away his moods. But it was nothing that had happened in Texas. It was what had been happening every day _since_. And Sam couldn't bring himself to tell Dean about those dreams, those flashes of Rob in incoherent visions and glimpses.

Dean gave up. Before leaving the motel room, Sam heard him pick up the lamp, then place the pills next to it on the table. "I'll be back tonight, I guess," he said. Sam stayed on the bed, looking at the wall, eyes wide with false energy left over from the argument. The lull of sleep begged him, pleaded with him. He could go find a diner for a quick caffeine fix. But the pills were still there when he looked round to the table. If he took them now, if he slept for the rest of the day, if Dean returned to that… he wouldn't think he was beyond hope.

He wasn't beyond hope. He couldn't be.

The pills went down uncomfortably. He took three. He climbed under the bed sheets, curling into himself. He didn't need the pills to sleep, but he needed them to forget, to relax. Eventually he felt his determined eyelids give in.

* * *

Dean was halfway to Limon when the Impala spluttered painfully, ground to a halt and then fell silent. "Oh, don't do this to me, baby," he groaned. The Impala ignored him. Grumbling under his breath, Dean popped the bonnet and stomped out, treading rain-soaked dirt underfoot. He stared down, checked the battery, and leant further forwards.

A sharp, metallic pain shot through his neck. He stepped back, and Rob bought the knife away, examining the blood. Dean fell. Rob's eyes were cool and distant as he stabbed Dean twice in the face, once in the heart. "For you, Sammy," he said. He bought the knife to his mouth.

Sam woke up clutching his head, not recognising the empty scream ringing at his ears, coming from his own dry mouth.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 7**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **I do not condone crazy driving of brotherly rage. Drive sensibly, guys!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Sam hit the ground running. He didn't stop to pull on shoes, or a jacket, or to grab the room keys. The only thing he pocketed on the way out was the Berreta gun, tucked underneath Dean's mattress.

It was raining heavily. Had it been raining during Dean's murder? No, he didn't think so, but that didn't mean anything. Rain could stop, dry up, especially in this heat. He was thankful for the bad weather, because the roadside outside the motel was empty, cars glistening in the droplets of water sliding off the bumpers. It wasn't an affluent area, and he broke the window of the oldest car he could see along the strip; a beat-up Corona with the dashboard already hanging open. He touched the red wires together, breath misting up the windows. The car spluttered, dying once. "Come on," he begged, and then the engine maintained. He was too fraught to yell triumphantly, but the adrenaline gripped his body, for the moment eclipsing the sleepiness remaining from the pills.

He floored the gas pedal as soon as he was out on the highway, overtaking cars and trucks, ignoring the horn blasts and visual insults. The car was shitty, and rattled all over the road like an angry snake, but it was speedy enough to not leave him feeling completely helpless. He pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial one. He wasn't sure what to expect. He held his breath tightly until Dean picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Dean," he started, and then paused. What the fuck should he say? He started again. "Dean, you need to turn back. And if the car breaks down, if anything happens, stay in it. Don't get out. _Don't_ turn your back."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dean, I'm coming. I'll explain when I'm there. But turn back. I'm heading down Highway 24. I'll be near Limon in an hour and a half. Please, Dean?"

"I'm almost here, Sam," Dean said, and the tone of his voice suggested Sam had finally gone batshit crazy. Sam flinched, fighting a wave of tiredness. "I'm half an hour away. Not even that, probably. And it's just stopped raining, which means I can finally see where I'm going. I'll see you in Limon, okay?"

"Dean!" Sam screamed, and he heard Dean's breath hitch. Hot tears rolled down Sam's cheeks. "Oh God, please Dean. He's going to kill you."

"Who are you talking about?" Dean asked. And then he answered himself, finally understanding. "This is about Rob?"

"Just _listen_ to me. Turn around. And if your car breaks down, stay in the car. Get your gun ready. Don't…" Sam blinked himself awake again. _Fuck_. _This was bad._ "Will you just listen to me? I'm not crazy, Dean, I swear."

"Right," Dean said, after a short pause. Sam pressed the phone closer to his ear. "I'm turning back."

"Thank you," Sam said. He glanced down at the flashing gas meter. The car was almost running on empty. "I'll catch up with you soon. Keep driving. No matter what."

Dean hung up. Sam fought the waves of sleep building inside him. He scanned the roadside for a gas station. The car would give out soon, and he wouldn't be able to find another vehicle out on this main stretch of road. The absurdity of the situation was like a slap in the face. He was going to be stranded somewhere in southern Colorado with no shoes, no socks, a gun tucked into the back of his sweat pants, a hotwired car under his possession, still suffering from the effects of three sleeping pills taken an hour ago. He laughed loudly, hysterically, hoping that Dean would see the funny side when he finally caught up with him.

The car was almost ready to collapse when he finally spotted a gas station in the distance. Pulling up outside the front, an attendant ambled over. Sam checked the compartments of the car quickly, and underneath the seats. He had no money.

"Hi," he said. He managed a weak smile. "A litre, please."

"Sure thing," the attendant grunted. He nodded at the gas meter. "Looks like you found us just in time."

"Sure did."

The attendant disappeared round the back of the car. Sam's phone buzzed on the passenger seat. He picked it up frantically.

"Dean?"

"Sam?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine, fine. What about _you_? Feeling okay, buddy?"

"Dean, don't –" Sam checked the mirror. The attendant was taking off the gas cover. "Don't patronise me."

"I just – well, that was a weird conversation we just had. And I'm driving out on a job on your say-so, and I think I deserve an explanation."

"I'll explain _everything_ when I see you," Sam said, and he knew that he would. But over the phone, fighting another wave of drowsiness, when he was about to break the law _again_ – hardly seemed like the best of times. He could almost hear Dean rolling his eyes. "Please, just trust me?"

There was a loud beep over his voice. His cell phone battery needed charging. "Dean, my phone is going, and I don't think there's a charger in this car."

"_What_ car, Sammy?" Dean asked, sounding distinctly amused.

"Get lost, Dean. Just call me if there's an emergency, okay? I'll keep an eye out for the Impala."

"Fine, fine. I'll talk to ya later, jail boy."

The attendant shut the gas cover. He began to walk round to the window. Sam took a deep breath and hit the gas.

* * *

Halfway to Limon, Sam turned into the dirt track road he recognised from his vision. Marks in the ground signified the cars that had been down this route, but now the road was empty. He drove a little while longer, hoping to cross Dean's path, but found no sign of the Impala. Maybe this was a good time to call him. 

There was no signal inside the car. Sam stepped outside, warmed through by the haziness of the late afternoon sun. His bare feet sunk into the moist dirt. A small signal bar appeared on his phone. He got through to Dean after two rings.

"Is it an emergency?"

"Where are you?"

"Out on Highway 24."

"I've just come off," Sam groaned. How had he not seen the Impala? Maybe he'd gone a different way. Or maybe he'd fallen asleep at the wheel. It didn't matter, Dean was safe. "Right, well I'll meet you back at the motel."

"Fine," Dean said, exasperated. "You better have a good excuse for this, Sam."

Sam was about to hang up when he heard a crack behind him. He reached for his gun, but a hand slammed over his mouth before he got the chance. A jolt of energy surged lucidly through his body. Before he blacked out, he heard Rob's voice, now instantly familiar to him, especially in the dark time before sleep. "I'm sure he does, Dean."

And he heard Dean's roar of desperation.

* * *

It took every inch of control Dean possessed not to crash the car, but he couldn't suppress the guttural sound deep at the back of his throat, filling the space between him and Rob like static electricity. The highway was quiet; it was the time before the end-of-work rush, and Dean checked the mirror once before doing a U-Turn in the middle of the road. The world spun, but he didn't hit anything. 

"Leave him alone," Dean said, unsure if Rob was still there. Rob hummed tunelessly on the other end. And underneath that, Dean could hear a soft creak. _He's moving him into the backseat_. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

"No, I can't. But you can."

"What?"

"Leave _us_ alone, Dean. You've had your time with him. You got all of those years. It's my turn now."

Dean drove faster. "Fuck you to hell, you son of a bitch."

"It's for his own good," Rob said, sounding almost earnest. "I won't hurt him, Dean. I promise. But leave us alone, okay, otherwise I'll have to kill you. And that _will_ hurt him, won't it?"

There was a series of rapid beeps. Sam's phone was dying. "Rob, please. Don't do this," he begged, but the line was gone by the time he'd finished the sentence. Dean slammed his phone against the window. He sped the Impala further forwards, covering the same route he'd already taken that day. There was nothing to say that Sam had even driven this way. They'd missed each other the first time.

He scanned the roads as he approached the end of the highway, looking for another turning. _Where the fuck did he get you, Sam?_ Angry tears blurred his vision. He blinked them away, scanning wildly. _And where the fuck are you now?_

He thought of Sam in the backseat of a car. Rob standing over him. Dean's hands gripped the wheel tighter, until his knuckles were white. His chest burned. White rage drummed against his brain, until he was forced to pull over. He was shaking, nauseous, and he couldn't block out the images in his head. _Rob's got Sam. He's got my Sammy._ _And they'll be miles away by now_.

Dean headbutted the window. He kept on, until he felt blood pool at his forehead. It was the wake-up he needed. He started the car again, and pulled out. His head ached. He let the pain drive him forwards.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Spark and the Force**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Apologies for the delay on this one. I've been busy with my job, and this chapter has been difficult to write. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I'm not entirely sure _what_ would make me happy, so I'm giving it to you as is. Please enjoy, and remember to tell me what you think. It really does make me happy. :D

* * *

**Chapter 8**

He found an abandoned Corona on an empty stretch of road just before the central exit to Limon. The driver's door was wide open. Dean searched the car swiftly, looking for any sign of his brother. It had been hotwired deftly, just the way he'd taught Sam. On the ground outside the door were two sets of footprints; walking boots and bare feet. He thought of Sam's sleepy voice over the phone. Had he taken the sleeping pills? Had he woken up and rushed out to save Dean without even putting his _shoes_ on? Dean felt a sting of guilt at this revelation. Sam would only have taken the pills to please Dean. Maybe he'd have stood a fighting chance if he hadn't been battling against their effects.

The footprints – the boots, anyway, continued to the side of the road, towards the line of trees. Dean followed them over. Rob must've carried Sam over here. And behind the trees were fresh car tracks which followed back out to the road. Dean left the Impala and followed the path, but eventually the tyres faded into a jumble of other imprints. Rob had driven back out to the highway; that much was clear. But from there? It had been half an hour since the phone call. In thirty more minutes they could be out of Colorado.

There was nothing here to lead Dean to Sam. Just an abandoned car, and tyre marks that led out to nowhere. He paced for a few seconds, trying to form a plan, _something_, in his mind. He looked at his phone, willing it to ring, for Rob to contact him again – even just to goad him. It would bring them closer.

But the phone was silent. He dialled his dad's number, not expecting an answer. He didn't get one. The answer machine clicked on. What did he say? _Sam's gone. I walked out on him and he got kidnapped by some freak with special powers_. _Please ring back._ Maybe not. He hung up, climbed into the Impala and thought about where to go.

There was only one place, one possible lead. He had to get back to Texas.

* * *

He stabbed Cathy with the sharpened knife she used to cut up large slabs of meat in the diner that took her name. He stabbed her because he knew that _Cathy's Diner_ would be the first place Dean would look, and even though Cathy didn't know anything about Rob – he'd given her a fake address, fake name, fake personality – he wanted Dean to lose hope quickly.

Cathy had been good to him, but Rob was still bristling with Sam's delicious potential, dripping out of the pores in his body, and Cathy was today's guinea pig. He smiled just the way that she liked; boyish charm mixed with the right amount of neediness, and she stopped bawling him out ("Where the _hell_ did you disappear to? I had to re-hire 'cos of your sorry ass") and started gurgling blood as the knife, drifting aimlessly behind her head, made its mark in her neck, tattooing a neat line right down to her spinal cord. She didn't have time to scream, and Rob was sorry about that. He'd have to hold himself back next time, make the kill last a bit longer.

It was dawn. The diner was closed, and Rob took a few minutes trying to light a match with the pulse at the back of his head. But it was too fiddly, and he was conscious of the time, and where Dean might be. He took the match in his hand, struck it against the box and set fire to a towel. The flames licked the edges, and he concentrated hard, thinking of the power beneath Sam's skin. The flames spread, until the kitchen was alight, spilling out to the diner. Rob watched as Cathy's foot jerked spasmodically. And then he couldn't see her foot, or any other part of her, as smoke got into his eyes.

He took in deep breaths of air as he walked outside, watching as the flames clawed at the windows. Sam was awake in the car, eyes wider than Rob had ever seen them. He was struggling against his handcuffs, looking like he was trying to pull the passenger door off, or maybe his arm. Rob slid in behind the wheel and reached over to ruffle his hair. Sam didn't flinch this time. He knew not to. "That was simple, wasn't it?"

Sam screwed his nose up, no longer bothering to scream through the gag. Rob laughed. "It's all thanks to you, Sammy. I'm going to get even better at this because of you."

Sam paused for a second, and then renewed his efforts to escape from the handcuffs. Rob was surprised he still had enough energy. He hadn't fed Sam these last two days, and he was pretty sure that he hadn't slept much either. "Our next stop is the last one, Sammy. We're going to my house now. It's here in Texas, but nobody will ever be able to find it. It's a safe place. Home."

Sam slumped down a little in his restraints. He stared at Rob hatefully from underneath his eyelashes. Rob switched the key in the ignition, the radio crashing on as the engine sprung into life. He watched the flames in the wing mirror through the tinted windows, curling round the aluminium coating of _Cathy's Diner_. "Maybe next time I'll take you along for the killing. That's the best part," Rob said. Sam twisted away from him. His cheeks were pale. "I'll give you some food when we get home. I promise. Try to get some sleep."

_Why the fuck didn't he burn in there_?

Rob blinked, and then smiled widely. The connection between him and Sam was getting stronger. That was the first fully formed sentence he heard, and they hadn't even been touching. Sam looked sick when he realised what had happened.

"I'm still here, unfortunately, and a bit surprised that such an ugly thought could come out of your sweet head. What else have you got tucked away in there?

_Fuck you fuck you fuck you just let me go what the hell do you want with me?_

"I would have thought _that_ would be obvious. I touch you, absorb you, and I can function in which ever way I choose. I've got all your powers. Even the ones you don't know anything about it."

He thought Sam had switched off at that, stopped thinking, as there was a very long pause filled by Springsteen on the radio. And then, very quietly, Rob heard it.

_I want Dean_ _oh God I want my brother._

Rob slapped him hard across the side of the face. Sam screamed, soft and muffled, through the tape across his mouth. Rob breathed heavily, hand shaking as he rubbed against the red mark on Sam's cheek. "I don't _want_ to hurt you, Sammy. I don't. But if you talk about him, mention his name, think about him… I'll have to do something about it. He's gone. And I don't want to hear his name again."

He tried to register Sam's thoughts again, but the kid really had clamped down this time. Rob probed a little further, keeping his hand on Sam's face, hoping it would strengthen the connection. All he got was a blanket emotion of fear. He brought his hand back to the wheel, consoling himself with the fact that they had plenty of time. He ignored Sam's sigh of relief as he took his hand away. There would be plenty of time to win Sam over, too. Once he realised the potential the two of them shared, the amazing things they could do, Sam would start needing him just as much as Rob needed Sam.

* * *

The diner was no longer recognisable; Dean wouldn't have even been sure it was the one him and Sam had sat in those few weeks ago, if it wasn't for the fact that it _was_ burning to the ground. Rob had been here, and recently.

"What happened?" he asked an onlooker. The guy shrugged, nodding towards the collapsing building.

"Saw them pulling out Cathy a little while ago. She was hopefully the only one in there. But she was dead."

"The owner?"

"Yeah. Nice lady. I used to eat in here sometimes between trucking. Damn shame."

"Do they know how it started?"

"Dunno. Probably an honest to goodness accident. Nobody would have anything against Cathy. She ain't that type of woman."

Dean fell silent. There was nothing else to ask. He knew more than anyone here; he knew exactly who would kill the owner of a crappy diner in Texas. Someone who was afraid she knew too much about him, afraid she might have caved in when Dean turned on the charm and asked about an employee of hers.

The realisation that he was now dealing with a murderer didn't make the next phone call any easier. But this had gone too far. He spoke quickly into the answer phone. "Dad, you need to contact me. Sam's been kidnapped, and I need your help. I'm in Texas. I'll keep looking. Please, phone me."

* * *

Rob blindfolded him soon after leaving the diner. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as Rob produced a dark strip of cloth. He turned to the side as he felt Rob's breath close against his face, but Rob grabbed Sam's chin roughly and turned him until their foreheads were almost touching. After he finished tying the blindfold behind his head, his hands lingered in Sam's hair.

"You're afraid of the dark," Rob said. It wasn't a question. He wondered what else Rob knew about him, had seen in the parts of his mind that were meant to be _his_. "But I won't let anything happen to you."

He slowly took his hands away. The first thing Sam felt was a bewildered kind of emptiness. He knew why Rob was so tactile with him. He was trying to make Sam needy, dependent. Because every touch made Sam feel incredible; every touch fed him, comforted him, so he could hardly think of anything else. And the part of Rob's mind which he allowed Sam to look onto only ever told him one thing. _Forget Dean. Forget him._

They drove in silence, but he could feel Rob's excitement sink into his skin whenever their arms brushed together. Eventually they slowed down, and he heard Rob leave the car. Sam was still handcuffed, blindfolded and gagged; he'd never been less in control of his senses, but that wasn't what frightened him. When time passed, and his mind began to taunt him, telling him Rob wasn't coming back, that he'd abandoned him, Sam didn't know who the thoughts belonged to. Not him. He _couldn't_ care about being apart from Rob.

Eventually the door swung open, his arm carried with it. Rob unlocked the handcuffs, and ripped off the gag, making Sam suppress a cry of pain. He kept the blindfold on.

"Where are we?"

"I told you. We're at my house."

"Let me see it."

"No," Rob said simply. "I don't trust you enough yet."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"Because there's nowhere else to go. And nobody will find us here." He pushed Sam in front of him. Sam knew he should be fighting back, but his legs were unsteady – he could barely walk, let alone fight. Every muscle ached from being cooped up in the car for two days. He stumbled forward, and felt Rob catch his waist. His hands lingered for too long.

"Don't," he said. Immediately, a sharp spasm blossomed in his side. He fell to the floor, and felt Rob standing over him.

"Sammy, how many times do I have to do this before you learn? I can make you feel so fucking _good_. You know that. I can touch you and make you forget all the shitty things that ever happened to you. Or," Rob bent down and grabbed Sam's arms. Sam screamed as a feeling like a thousand needles sunk into his skin, "I can do this. Pain like you never knew. It's easy. You have to learn not to resist me."

Sam curled into a ball. Rob pulled away, and when he spoke he sounded rather pleased with himself. "Well?"

_I'll take pain every time,_ Sam told Rob, _if it means not acting like some kind of toy for you to play with._ The thought reached Rob immediately, enraging him. Sam felt his anger radiate towards him, surging through his head.

"Fine," Rob said. Sam gritted his teeth as Rob's hands rested on his arm. The feeling was so complete that at first Sam didn't realise it was happening. When he did, he made a sound that he'd never heard come from his mouth before, a high-pitched, frantic whining. His arms exploded, then his chest, then his head. _He's killing me, this is it, this is what it feels like to die._

"No, Sammy, that's what it feels like to _live_. And there will be _lots_ more," Rob assured him. He sounded like he was having difficulty getting the words out. As he took his hand away, Sam's head rolled into the dirt. Rob breathed heavily, inches from his face. After a minute, or maybe ten, Sam felt his body, unresisting, dragged further away from the world.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Spark and the Force**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **I'm going on holiday for just over a week, so I decided to post an update before I left. Hopefully I'll have some nice reviews waiting to cheer me up upon returning to rainy old England (yes, that _was_ a hint!) Please allow a couple of weeks for the next update. It will be out ASAP.

The warnings are really starting to kick in for this chapter. Some dark stuff happens here, with more Sam torture of the mental and physical kind, and mentions of child abuse. _Please_ approach with caution.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Sam didn't know how long he slept for, but he was groggy and disorientated when he woke up, head woolly from a deep sleep he wasn't used to. He woke up with Rob on his mind, and half expected to see him there when he opened his eyes. But the room was empty. There was one narrow window above the mattress he was lying on, too high up to see out of. The only other items in the room were a pile of clothes in the corner. There were two doors. The one facing his makeshift bed was locked. The other led to a tiny bathroom, with a shower, sink and toilet. No mirror, razor, or window. He tested the door. No lock. None of this surprised him.

Outside the bathroom he pressed his ear to the locked door and listened for movement. There was nobody out there, and the thought unsettled him. Where was Rob? Had he left him?

_I need him_.

He banged his fist against the wall, disgusted with himself. _You're not thinking straight_, he told himself. _You're hungry. Food is the only thing you need from him._

He was conscious of how grubby he felt; his feet were still bare, and filthy from dried mud. He'd been in the same clothes for two days, and however long he'd slept for. The clean clothes, even though they weren't his (and Sam had a pretty good idea who they belonged to) were looking more and more inviting, and in the end he gave in and took them through to the bathroom.

The shower was warm and powerful. He tried to lose himself in it, but with both eyes trained to the door, waiting for it to swing open, it wasn't easy. But Rob didn't come in, and he eventually stepped out, pulling on the clean clothes straight away as there was no towel to dry off with. He felt halfway normal again, though he was still hungrier than he'd ever been, and more terrified still. _You shouldn't feel terrified, he's not even in the room_, Sam thought angrily. But there was that feeling again, and he wasn't surprised, when he opened the door, to see Rob sat on the mattress, waiting for him.

"You look better," Rob remarked. His eyes were distracted; he looked like he was planning something. Sam didn't come into the room. Instead he leant against the door frame and remained silent, conscious of how the clothes hung too loosely on him. There was a tray of food – water and sandwiches and a couple of chocolate bars - by Rob's feet. "Are you hungry?"

"You know I am."

"Well, you better have something to eat."

He shifted over on the mattress and patted the vacated spot beside him. Sam stared at him. His need for food, for _water_, was so great that he ignored the warning signals building rapidly and sat where Rob had told him to. He started on the water, gulping it down thirstily, blocking out Rob's watchful expression. He made short work of the food, and then risked a glance over to the door. It was open.

Rob cleared his throat. "It's time to start, Sammy."

"Start what?"

"This. Stay still. Keep looking at me."

Rob brought both hands up to his head. Sam wanted to resist, but he remembered the last time he'd been with Rob, the searing pain that he never wanted to experience again. Rob closed his eyes, and as his hands made contact, Sam's mind felt like it was being stripped bare. Rob was inside him, in his head, whispering, and Sam had never felt more naked. _Open up for me, Sammy, let me see it all. That's it, Sammy, let me in. _AndSam was six again, climbing into Dean's bed after their dad had left them to go on a hunt. He was nine, and his teacher was commenting on how smart he was, how much potential he had. Two weeks later, he was kicking and sobbing as his dad dragged him into the Impala, telling him to stop being a brat. His first real hunt, aged twelve; Dean's hands shaking as he killed the spirit who was plummeting towards Sam, and later, afterwards, Dean confessing it was his first real kill. None of this seemed to interest Rob. He went to the sharper memories, the newer ones. The argument with his dad. Meeting Jess for the first time. The first time they kissed, the first time they had sex. He tried to push Rob out, because he could sense Rob's interest now, and he felt like screaming as Rob saw Jess, saw them together. _It's okay, it's okay, Sammy, you're doing great. So good_. Jess was dying, pinned to the ceiling. Sam snapped back, screaming as he surfaced from the memory, as Rob half-panted, half-laughed into his ear.

_Shut up you son of a bitch, shut up_.

"You make this so difficult for yourself," Rob said. He moved towards Sam. He took a hunting knife from his back pocket, perceptibly sharp. Dean's hunting knife. He'd kept it. He brought it up to Sam's face. "Remember this?"

It was the first time since being kidnapped that Rob had threatened him in a way he could understood. He played the wide-eyed victim, shaking as Rob traced it along his cheekbones, down to his lips. "Now, where do I leave a mark?" Rob asked. He brought it away, eyes lost in thought, and Sam grabbed the knife, using it to twist Rob's arm round, until he heard a satisfying crack of muscle. Rob fell against the mattress, sucking in his breath. Sam bought the knife to his neck.

"Go on then," Rob said, cradling his arm. "This is your territory, right? You know what to do with that."

"I do."

"So?" Rob laughed. It was just a sound of the back at his throat, but it built as Sam's hand shook, unable to make a mark. "Feel that pain in your arm, Sam? Wondering where that's coming from?"

_Why does my arm hurt? I was the one to hurt you._

The knife flew out of Sam's hand, into Rob's good one. He made a deep cut into the palm of his left hand, taking laboured breaths to steady himself. Sam gritted his teeth as pain took hold of the palm of his own left hand.

"We share each other's pain now," Rob said. "Kind of like twins. And when we're apart, we long to be together, even if, in your case, you're afraid of me. Plus, I can read your mind, and," he continued to smile as his mouth snapped shut.

_By now you should be able to read mine_.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Strengthening our connection."

He took Sam's hand and squeezed, and Sam sunk into the mattress as a wonderful heat filled his stomach. When he opened his eyes, Rob had his hand close to his mouth. He squeezed a few drops of blood as Sam clamped his lips shut.

_Open up for me Sammy. Open up or I'll make you open it. _His hands were everywhere, on every part of Sam. Sam opened his mouth with no real thought, and tasted blood. It continued to drip down. _Now swallow._

"No. _No_." Sam shook his head. He kicked his legs out, hitting Rob square in the stomach, ignoring the pain in his own. He spat out a mouthful of blood. Rob's grey eyes flashed contemptuously. He lurched for Sam, but Sam was already scrambling towards the door, legs straightening and picking up speed. He caught a glimpse of the room outside, stripped bare of furnishings. He skidded left, seeing an open door. It slammed shut. When he turned, Rob was behind him.

"Where would you go, Sammy?" he asked, fake confusion raising the pitch of his voice. "Don't you realise that there's nowhere you can go now that I won't find you. Can't you see that running is pointless? We're bound together."

"I'll find a way to sever the link."

"There's no way to do that," Rob said softly. "Too much has happened between us." He gripped Sam's arm in demonstration, pulling him closer. Sparks of heat and goodness shot through Sam's skin, and his mouth opened in silent ecstasy. "Can't you feel it? It gets stronger each time we make contact. The power between us is frightening. I know that's why you're scared. But there's nothing more natural than this. And we can achieve anything."

He pushed Sam against the door, studying his face. Sam felt like he was coming up from a deep sleep. _Wrong, this is wrong, not natural._

"Natural," Rob repeated. "Please don't fight this, Sammy."

"What is it you _want_?" Sam asked. It was the first time he'd really asked it, the first time he expected an answer that wasn't directly related to Sam, or his powers, or the connection between them. Rob pushed Sam's hair out of his eyes.

_We'll start small. The people that have hurt me in the past, denied me things, ignored me._

Sam waited, expecting more. But Rob didn't seem to have thought any further than this.

"That's _it_? You're doing all this for _revenge_?"

Rob looked confused, but didn't answer. Sam laughed bitterly.

"You've taken me away from my brother, from everything I know, forced some kind of warped connection between us, hurt me every time I did or said something you didn't like… because some people have pissed you off in the past?" He pushed Rob away, disgust fuelling him. "You're pathetic."

He wasn't surprised when he fell to the floor, pain searing through his body. He managed a small laugh, even though it felt like his spine was splitting in two. Rob pushed back his head and slapped him round the face. "You _will_ help me."

"This is hurting you too," Sam whispered hoarsely. "Is it worth it?"

"Say you'll help me."

"Go to hell. You can't keep doing this. It will kill you too eventually."

Rob's hands were around Sam's neck. Desperate, sticky rolls of air died in Sam's throat, as pain seared through the rest of his body. Eventually Rob let go, falling onto his back. He breathed unevenly and rapidly. Sam rolled onto his side, coughing painfully into the ground.

"Well?" he asked. "What else can you do to threaten me? Because _that_ isn't going to work anymore."

Rob didn't reply. Flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling, he looked deep in thought. Sam tried to listen, but heard nothing but the throbbing in his head. "You're right," Rob said eventually. "I need to reconsider. I didn't think this through." He stood slowly, looking down at Sam. "Did anybody tell you how pretty you are, Sammy?"

There was a change in his voice. He sounded happier.

_I think we'll share a bed tonight. That mattress can't be too comfortable._

It was too easy, Sam thought. Too easy for Rob to control him in this way. He felt ashamed of himself for the utterly predictable reaction, the rising nausea in his stomach, the prickly fear.

_It's been a long time, Sammy. I'm so lonely. Are you lonely, Sammy?_

"Fuck you."

"Of course, we could be somewhere else tonight. Shall I tell you about him? His name is Christopher Harris. He abused me, when I was a child. He was my teacher, and I trusted him. He made me believe it was my fault."

"No."

"Does a man like that really deserve to live?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. But please don't ask me to do this."

"You don't have to do anything. You just need to be there."

Sam shook his head. Rob smiled. _I was kind of hoping you'd do that. _He knelt down beside Sam, taking his face in his hands. _He used to hold me like this. He did some horrible things to me, Sammy. I wonder what it felt like._

He laughed coldly as Sam started to sob. He kissed his forehead. "Say you'll help me, Sammy."

"No."

The next kiss was lower, on the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't just me he did it too, you know. There were other boys. He liked us young. I was only eight."

"_Please_."

He knew what was coming next. Before Rob could reach his mouth, he began to nod his head. "Okay, I will. I'll be there. Please, oh God, don't do this."

Rob pulled away. Sam didn't struggle as he pushed him back into the room. "We'll leave soon," he said. He locked the door. Sam's legs gave way underneath him.

_He did some horrible things to me, Sammy. I wonder what it felt like._

Sam couldn't cry, couldn't think. He didn't trust or understand his own thoughts anymore. He stared at the wall until the palm of his hand began to sting again. Rob knocked on the door, and Sam reached up, unseeing, to the door handle.

"There's one thing you need to do before we go," Rob said. He held out his palm, and the blood dripped down onto Sam's face.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 10**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **I got back from my holiday yesterday, so here's a short chapter to tide you over until we pick up on the action. No warnings for this part, just plenty of Dean angst, if that's your thing. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"Jeez, hun, you look terrible. What d'ya say you do yourself a favour and go on home for the night, hmm?"

"Thought it was your job to serve drinks."

"At my discretion," the barmaid said. "And you're awful close to scaring away my regulars."

Dean made a point of looking round the half-empty bar. He slid the chaser glass across the sticky bar. "'nother one, please." The barmaid looked pained. Dean stifled a yawn. "I'm gonna be leaving in a bit, alright? Just pour me one more lousy whiskey, sweetheart."

"Must be a girl that got you this way," she said as she poured a shot of Jim Beam. Dean snorted.

"Don't happen to know a Rob Taylor, do you?"

"Lotsa Rob Taylors in the world, I'll bet."

"Not like this one."

"What's he done?"

"Can't go into details," Dean mumbled. He took the shooter, deposited himself in a dark corner of the bar, and took his phone out for the hundredth time that day. John's voicemail would be pretty full by now, but his surly answering message was the only link Dean had to just about anything.

"Dad," he croaked. "I'm taking a break at the moment because I almost crashed the car into a brick wall earlier, and my head is spinning like a motherfucker. I probably won't sleep, but I needed a little R&R so I'm in a shitty little bar, thinking about how much I fucking hate you for not being here and helping me find your _son_. Call me, before I get myself killed, or he kills Sammy. Whatever." Dean hung up the phone and assessed his trembling hands. Three days. Had Sam given up hope? Dean was pretty close himself. He'd been all over, gone through every Taylor in the phone book, asked everywhere in Texas, it seemed; had even tried drawing a picture to offset the blank expressions he got when asking for a goddamn Rob Taylor, but he was no artist, and even if he had been, Rob was a gaping hole of nothing. The guy you saw everywhere and never remembered. The perfect criminal.

He downed the shot, only his third, but coupled with lack of sleep and food it went straight to his head, and he felt the room spin slightly as he headed for the exit, grazing his hand on a nail sticking out of the doorframe. He bought his palm up to his mouth as it started to bleed, finding the salt trace reassuring. It focused him briefly enough to sink into the front seat of his car. _Dean_, _you can't drive like this,_ he heard Sam warning him. Dean, for once, agreed with his brother. His head fell forward, hitting the wheel, and he was

_searching_

_just a plain room. a plain fucking room. nothing to distinguish it from any other room._

"_haven't given up, sam. gonna find you."_

"_you're gonna be too late. it's too late. it's happening."_

A phone rang. Dean blinked, eyelashes brushing the steering wheel. A phone. _His _phone. Blood stuck to the keys as he pulled it from his jean pocket. "_Fuck_, that hurts," he growled. He brought the phone to his ear, forgetting to press 'receive'. The phone blared angrily, deafening him. He winced as he pressed the button.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?" _Oh sweet mother of God. _"It's your father."

"I know who it fucking _is_."

"What's happening, Dean?"

"Listen to your fucking messages," Dean snapped. He swapped the phone to his other hand, bringing the bloody palm up to the moonlight to inspect it. "I've had my tetanus jab, right, dad?"

"You've been drinking?"

"I've been _searching_. Day and night. What the fuck have _you_ been doing?"

"I couldn't get to my phone. I'm sorry." (Didn't _sound_ sorry. Not sorry enough. Though he hadn't reprimanded Dean for his language yet.) "I'm driving to Texas now. I'll be there by the morning."

"Forget it. Texas is a dusthole. No intelligent life here. Nobody knows where he is. Nobody knows who the fuck Rob Taylor is."

"What can you tell me about him, Dean?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "Nothing that will help."

"Everything helps." Dean just about noticed the frantic tone to his father's voice. He sat up slightly.

"Met him at a diner in Texas. He was serving. Diner's burnt down now. He did it, must've. The first time he took Sam," Dean's voice shook. First. Second. _You don't learn, you just don't learn_, he heard John thinking, "he didn't get too far. I found 'em. He could move objects with his mind. And when he touched Sam, there was some kind of weird energy between them."

"Energy?"

"Yeah, energy. Sam said it was like a force. He said it felt good." _And I told him to go to sleep._

"What else?"

"That was it. Over. I shot him full of rocksalt, Sam freaked out, I didn't have time to make sure I'd killed him properly. Few days ago, I…" _walked out on Sammy_. "Left Sam at the motel, got a phone call from him a little while later, freaking out, saying he was coming to look for me. We crossed paths on the highway. And when Sam got to where he thought I was –"

"Rob got to him?"

"Yeah."

"You've exhausted every avenue in Texas?"

"No stone unturned, _sir_."

There was a pause. John was thinking. Dean watched the blood drip down onto his jeans.

_too late_

_it's happening_

His father's voice came through strong in his ear. He'd made a decision.

"Dean, can you get to Kansas"

"Why? They could be anywhere. We gotta think…" what was the word? "Logically. We gotta think logically about this."

"I know. We need a lead, Dean, and you're telling me you can't find any. That's why we need to get to Missouri. Maybe she can detect something we can't."

Missouri Mosely. _Idiot_, Dean scolded himself. _If anyone can help, it isn't dad. It's the crazy psychic lady. _"Fuck. Of course. I'm driving there now."

"See you when you get there. Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your language."

Dean was tempted to scream _fuck you _down the phone, wondering if it would help, wondering if it would make him feel better. He clamped his teeth together and hung up. After a fruitless interior search for his car keys, he found them still hanging out of the car door on the other side. "You're losing it, Winchester," he said. "Losing it like a goddamn rigged poker game." He glanced at the seat next to him, something he'd been avoiding doing.

_too late_

_it's happening_

"Just a dream," Dean said. But the _what if_ was persistent in the space between him and Sam. All that space between them. _What's happening? Why's it too late?_

The seat was empty. It would stay empty until Dean found Sam. "Fuck you, Rob Taylor," he said, starting up the engine. "I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna rip your fucking head off. It's not too late for _that_, asshole."

He drove too fast, windows wound down in the vain hope that the cold night air would keep him awake. Two miles out of Texas, sleep took him completely.

_find christopher harris find him find him dean find christopher harris_

He woke up with his head slumped forward again, brain pounding at the limits of his temples as he assessed the damage. The road was empty. The car wasn't wrapped round a tree. "Thank you God," he wheezed.

_Christopher Harris. Who the fuck is Christopher Harris?_

"Get to Missouri first," Dean whispered. "Keep driving, Winchester. Keep driving."

The name was important, he knew that. But it meant nothing to him at the moment, and he couldn't afford to waste more time searching for a name that probably belonged to a few thousand people in the States. Not without some help.

The road swallowed up underneath him as he floored the gas.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 11**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **An extra long (for me, anyway!) chapter today, I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to everyone for your reviews this far, they've really given me purpose. For those that want to know a bit more about Rob, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

* * *

**Chapter 11**

'_The storm is rising in me, t__he blood is rising in me. __And all our time slips away.' __­_**A&B Song, Tom McRae**

* * *

Sam shut his thoughts down on the car journey. It was a skill, Rob noticed, he'd perfected already; an interesting survival tactic that he probably wasn't even aware of.

As a result, Rob didn't know if the kid was asleep or awake. The blindfold masked his eyes, and he was very still. His breathing was steady and almost peaceful. Street lights filtered into the otherwise dark car, striping his face in shadows. After an hour, he grew bored, wanting conversation. _Talk to me, Sammy, _he requested. Sam stirred in his seat.

"How far away is it?" he asked. Rob squeezed Sam's leg, encouraged by the easy contact.

"An hour. Maybe less." He reached over and yanked the blindfold over Sam's head. Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Are you scared, Sammy?"

Sam didn't answer. He looked over at Rob's hand. "That's hurting less, isn't it?"

"You did a good job bandaging it. You've obviously done that before."

"Dean taught me how to patch up wounds," Sam said, his eyes softening. Rob inhaled, and Sam looked over defiantly. _You're still not learning_. He administered a short shock through Sam's arm, gritting his teeth at the pain that took his own. He saw

_a thirteen year old Dean, a nine year old Sam. Dean's upper arm splashed in red and dirt. Dean squealing as Sam's unsteady fingers applied pressure. "You're just meant to press. Not… y'know, squeeze the life out."_

And then the memory was gone.

_Fuck you_.

Rob rolled his eyes. They were suddenly back to this, and he was tired of it already. "Sammy, I don't _want_ to hurt you."

"Of course you don't." Sam said. "You just don't have a choice, do you?"

"It's very simple. Stop mentioning Dean…"

_No_, Sam told him simply. His hazel eyes were never more appealing than when they were full of confrontation. Rob felt his stomach stir. _He's my brother, and he's looking for me. And he'll find me. Because that's what Dean does._

_Not doing a very good job of it so far, is he? You know it's been four days. Yes, that's right. You're so confused, Sammy, you have no idea how long it's been since I took you._

He didn't expect Sam to believe him, and Sam didn't, but there was still a trickle of apprehension there. Rob enjoyed it.

"Anyway," he said out loud, "I've found a way to make you forget Dean. Forget everything about your other life, actually. It will take some time as it's a gradual process. Maybe two weeks. But by the end of it you'll only remember me."

"You're bluffing. You're not capable of anything like that."

"Who taught you how to patch up wounds, Sammy?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question. Who taught you how to bandage wounds?"

"I…" Sam looked confused. "I don't know. My dad, I guess. I can't really remember."

It was a hollow victory - Sam didn't even know what he was talking about - but it was a victory nonetheless. Rob smiled.

"I don't get you, Sammy. All that power; why don't you use it? You're not stupid, and you're not a slacker. You're well-trained, disciplined and strong-willed. So why do you keep it inside you?"

Sam looked disgusted by this question. "What are you _talking_ about? I can't do any of the things you do. You want to know what my powers are? Visions. Crappy, head-destroying visions. If you're using _my_ powers, why haven't you had any of those yet?"

"Because unlike you, I know how to pick and choose. I'll let you keep the visions. They're no use to me."

Sam shot him an incredulous look, along the lines of _how kind of you_. Rob chuckled. The warm, penetrating feeling of anticipation was in his gut now, and he drove a little faster, marvelling at the clear, peaceful night; the perfect backdrop to the killing he had planned. He wanted so badly for Sammy to enjoy it too; to feel (really _feel_, not just sense) what Rob was feeling rising inside of him. But all he could feel as his arm brushed against Sam's was fear and sickness in incalculable measures.

"When we get there, you don't need to do or say anything. I just need you near me. You'll be there with me, of course, because I want you to know why you're helping me to kill Christopher Harris. This isn't like Cathy, the woman at the diner. She didn't deserve to die, she was just a casualty. But Harris; he deserves it."

"How will you kill him?" Sam asked, so quietly that Rob made him repeat it. Sam's head was filled with pleas. _Don't tell don't tell me I don't really want to know._

"The most painful way possible," Rob answered. In the corner of his eye he watched Sam shudder. He was close to breaking point.

The realisation filled Rob with delight.

* * *

Sam didn't know what he was expecting when Rob finally stopped the car and took the keys out of the ignition, but it wasn't an expensive looking apartment block with a doorman at the reception, even at this late hour, and the smell of roses and bergamot drifting from the adjacent park. Rob took in his apprehensive face. "Paedophiles _can_ own nice apartments, Sammy." 

"Why did nobody ever report him?"

"They did. He's been in jail and was released a few years ago. He's been living here ever since. Wealthy relatives. Lovely, huh?" He reached across and unlocked Sam's handcuffs. "Time to go, Sammy."

"How are we –"

Rob held his finger to Sam's lips. "Just stay quiet now. Let me take care of everything."

Sam was aware that he could run. He could run away screaming, wake the whole street up, put endless distance between the two of them. Or he could fight; especially after the sleep and food he'd been allowed. He could feel that his body was tense and alert, ready for combat. But none of these thoughts seemed to register properly. He trailed after Rob like a kitten, and it didn't feel wrong to do so. It felt like his only option.

The doorman lifted his head as they entered the block, distrust clear on his face. That was for the second Sam saw it; after that, the same face was slammed into the brick wall, and the doorman fell unconscious to the floor. As Rob walked, the body dragged along beside him. Sam eventually found it in himself to hold back. "No, _no_. You can't do that to him, you can't –" He turned to the front entrance. It slammed shut in front of him. Rob held his arm round Sam's neck, lips brushing his ear as he whispered into it.

"He's not dead, Sammy. We didn't kill him. We just have to hide him in case someone walks by. He'll wake up with a headache. Just a headache. I promise."

Sam followed, as Rob deposited the body in the janitor's closet. He followed him into the elevator, to the third floor, and down the corridor to room nine. Rob took a moment to breathe before knocking on the door. He counted quietly, spacing out the seconds evenly. When he reached sixty, the door flew open. Rob stepped in. Sam followed him.

The apartment was very plain. There were no decorative touches; no pictures, or splashes of colour. Just functional beige furniture offset against magnolia walls. Sam heard a scuffling in the next room. "Don't worry," Rob said, making no effort now to keep his voice down. "He lives alone."

They stood in the lounge area. Rob was in no hurry. The movement in the other room had stopped now, and they heard someone – Harris – wheezing with fear. Eventually a high, frightened voice called through. "Take whatever you want and leave."

Rob smiled at this. He remained silent. Sam pressed himself against the closed door, fingers curled round the handle. It would be so easy to leave. So easy to run. Rob spoke, without looking at him. "Stay with me, Sammy. I need you right here."

Minutes ticked by. Sam felt the excitement radiate from Rob. He pressed his face against the smooth wood of the pine door, aware that freedom was just a few inches away from him. He tried to think what Dean would do in this situation.

Dean would stay. He'd try to save this guy.

"Are you still there?" Harris asked softly. When he received no reply, he opened the door. He poked a shotgun round first, then the rest of his body. His face dropped in recognition. He reached for the trigger.

"Stop," Rob ordered him. The gun dropped to the floor. Harris stared at it dumbly, his light brown hair falling into his eyes. Eventually he looked up. He seemed to see only Rob.

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

"I think you know. I'm surprised you recognised me so quickly. Considering I'm not a kid anymore. Considering I'm not _screaming_."

"I think you've got the wrong guy," Harris replied, too quickly, as if he'd practised this. His eyes finally darted to Sam, and Sam was horrified to see a ghost of a smile reach the older man's lips. Rob stood between the two of them, blocking Sam from Harris's eye line. A pair of scissors flew from the work surface in the kitchen. They penetrated Harris's right hand all the way through, until the blades poked out the other side. Rob's breath was ragged. "We're here to kill you. But it won't be quick. It's going to take some time." Harris screamed, holding his hand to his face as if in disbelief. The scissors began to make a sawing motion through the palm. _In out in out. _Sam had heard plenty of screams in his life, all sorts of screams. But nothing like this. He gasped as the scissors began to draw a line up to Harris's wrist.

"Stop it," he gasped at Rob. "Please, stop it."

Rob's body shook. He made no indication that he'd even heard Sam.

* * *

Dean coasted to Lawrence on will power alone. He arrived to the sun rising behind him, filling the sky with a hazy pink that Sam would probably have commented on if he'd been here. Just for good measure, Dean said, "You're such a girl, Sammy," to the empty seat. He hoped that Sam, wherever the fuck he was, heard it. 

John Winchester was standing at Missouri's door, looking about as ill as Dean was feeling. He nodded as his son approached. "Dean."

Dean was silent. His dad stiffened uncomfortably as he brushed past him to get inside. "Dean," he said again. Dean turned, squinting as his eyes caught the sun.

"Yeah?"

John sighed heavily. He looked older than the last time they'd met, less sure of himself. "Let's just –" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Dean nodded.

"Typical Winchester men!" Missouri's voice boomed from the other room. "Just hug, you two, and then get your asses in here."

"Winchester men don't hug," Dean replied meekly. He followed John through to Missouri's parlour, where the psychic was sat down, cup of tea in hand. Her face softened slightly when she saw Dean.

"Lord, you need your brother, don't you? You're a mess without him."

"Can you help us?" Dean asked as he sat down. John sat next to him, staring intently at the woman opposite.

"We'll see," Missouri replied. "I believe you've got a picture of him in your pocket, Dean?"

"No. I mean –" Dean reached into his jeans pocket and rooted around for the crumpled piece of paper. "I flunked art," he said, by way of apology. He gave it to Missouri, who studied it critically.

"I can see that," she cackled. She wandered off to the next room, evidently looking for something. Dean tried to catch his father's eye. John eventually looked at him, sighing like it was an effort.

"You haven't been looking after yourself," he commented. Dean laughed shortly.

"I've had other things on my mind. You know, like my brother."

"There's no point running yourself to the ground, Dean. That's not going to help Sam, is it?"

"Maybe if I'd had someone to help_ me_…"

"I thought it was Sammy's job to argue with his father," Missouri commented, re-entering with the picture in one hand and a pencil in the other. "You two are going to need each other."

John stared at the ground. "Missouri, you know I'm just worried about my son."

"They _both _need worrying about, John Winchester. Now, let's see. Would _this_ be a better likeness?"

She began to fill in Dean's simple drawing, adding shadows and details that Dean hadn't been able to remember; the faint line across the bridge of Rob's nose, the crease between his eyebrows, the downward curve of his mouth. When she'd finished, Dean found himself staring at a no longer faceless Rob Taylor.

"That's him. Exactly." He breathed heavily. "Whoa. How did you _do _that?"

"I knew Rob Taylor under a different name. Paul Johnson. You see, he chooses names that will never get him noticed. He was working his way through all the known psychics in Kansas at the time. Working out who was the most use to him, who would give him access to the greatest range of powers."

"So what is he? Is he human?"

"He's a _leech_," Missouri said, in an unkind tone that Dean had never heard from her before. "Yes, he's human. His abilities make him an empath, but I wouldn't call that man an empath. He has no consideration for those that he mimics; he uses them up, drains them of their free will."

"_How_?" John asked. Dean knew he was fixated on those last few words, thinking about Sam. Dean didn't know if he wanted to hear any more.

"Sometimes it's simple enough as being in the same room as them. That would give him an initial burst. But to sustain it…" Missouri shook her head. Her voice cracked. "He'd try to… manufacture… a connection between him and his chosen. He tried that with me, but I had too much control over my abilities. Rob would have been looking for someone unaware of their potential. Someone like Sam. Sam would act like the spark to his force."

Dean only had one question he wanted answering. He raised his head. "If he keeps doing it long enough, using Sam's powers, maintaining this… connection? What happens to Sammy?"

He heard his father inhale. Missouri closed her eyes, and Dean could have sworn she was blinking away tears. "You'd recognise Sam in looks only. He'll end up a shell, there for Rob and nobody else. Eventually Rob will be able to use Sam's powers independently. And Sam will be no more use to him."

"How long do we have before that happens?"

"Sam will be changing already. He'll be unsure of himself, disorientated, unable to fight back. In a few days, Sam will be unable to distinguish himself from Rob. Maybe less than that, if they've already swapped blood." Dean couldn't stop the desperate noise that escaped from inside of him upon hearing this. "You need to find him before Sam looses his sense of being."

"Then you need to tell us where we can find them," John said, edging forward in his chair. "Missouri, you can do that, right?"

"I'm afraid there's only one person in this room who can do that, and it certainly ain't me."

Dean found himself the subject of John and Missouri's intense gaze. He shook his head. "If I knew, I'd have found them already. Don't you think I've been looking everywhere for that son of a bitch?"

"You have a name in your head, Dean."

"A name?"

"A man's name…" Missouri closed her eyes. "It's important. A man's name."

_Christopher Harris._

"Christopher Harris."

John looked confused by this exchange. He looked over at Dean. "Who's Christopher Harris?"

"I don't know."

"When was the last time you slept, Dean?"

"A few hours ago."

"I mean _slept_. I don't mean dozed off, took a nap, fell asleep at the wheel of the car…" Dean blushed at this, as Missouri sighed knowingly. "Slept, Dean. When was the last time?"

"The night before Sam went missing."

"I suggest you go up the stairs, find a comfy looking bed and get some sleep."

"There's no time!" Dean and John said in perfect unison. Missouri looked affronted.

"Do you want me to help you boys or not?"

"Of course," John said through gritted teeth. "But there are more important things at hand, Missouri."

"Nothing is more important than a good, restful sleep. Dean Winchester, get your skinny ass up those stairs now, and get your head down on the pillow."

Dean looked over at his father. He was staring incredulously at the older woman. She, in turn, was staring back, looking rather stony. Eventually he nodded at Dean. Dean heard him start to protest to Missouri as soon as he left the room, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He _was_ really, really tired. Maybe Missouri, for once, was talking complete sense.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 12**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Apologies for the delay on this one, real life got in the way for a while. Also apologies if this chapter seems kind of… boring. I'm not too happy with it, but it's gearing up for the end now (_possibly_ three more chapters) and groundwork needs to happen before any big showdowns.

**Warnings for this chapter:** Violence, sexual threats, and terrible writer knowledge of how American crime scenes work.

* * *

**-12-**

As Sam watched the blood from seemingly everywhere on Harris's body form a sticky puddle on the floor, he knew he had two choices: stop this happening or watch as Rob further tortured, mutilated and eventually murdered a defenceless man. Rob had found a sharp knife in the kitchen, and was concentrating on Harris's fingers. The little finger on his right hand was now hanging, severed, by just a small amount of skin. And Christopher Harris was hanging by a thread himself, drifting somewhere just past consciousness. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he was somewhere else, and then he was – or at least it felt like it.

_Dean_. He'd felt him before, when Rob had been inside his mind in the car. And now he could feel him again, without Rob's influence. His eyes flew open, and he knew that Dean was seeing what he was: the bland, dimly lit apartment, Rob's back to him, and Harris screaming through the tape over his mouth. He could feel Dean watching, frightened and disgusted.

_Please get here_ Sam urged him. _Christopher Harris. Texas. We're still in Texas._

He felt something jolt him out of his reverie. Rob was gripping his arms, grey eyes furious. Dean was gone. "Who were you talking to?" he asked. His voice was strained and hoarse. He looked very, very pale. Sam shrugged away, deciding to play it dumb.

"Talking to? I wasn't talking to anybody."

He wasn't prepared for the swift slap to his face. Rob's cheeks flared a sudden red. Sam held his hand up to his own. "Rob, I swear. I wasn't…"

Rob pulled away. He began to clap slowly, four times, his palms pressed tightly together. "Congratulations, Sammy, you've finally got a hold on another of those extraordinary powers."

Sam glanced over at Harris. The man was slumped against a kitchen stool, eyes half-lidded. Maybe Sam could buy some time. "I don't know what you mean. I told you, I don't have _powers_. Just visions."

"You projected something into someone else's brain. I suspect it was Dean, right? I heard you, Sammy. 'We're still in Texas.' That was stupid, wasn't it? Given that I can hear your thoughts."

"That was just _me_. I was thinking to myself. How could I contact Dean? I'm not capable of that." Sam stared up, his eyes wide. "I'm not, am I?"

Rob smiled, and Sam, for a reckless moment, thought he'd fooled him. Then Rob grabbed his arm, sending angry jolts through his nerve system, and dragged him over to where Harris was sitting. He pressed the knife into his hand. "I want you to hurt him, Sammy."

Sam kept his fingers splayed, refusing to take the bloody handle. He twisted his hand away, freeing himself from Rob's grip on him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're not _learning_," Rob said through gritted teeth. "I'm going to show you that you're the same as me. Tonight you're going to help me kill a man."

Harris jerked awake at this, his eyes resting on Sam. He started to sob, a low guttural sound that worked its way to Sam's heart. Sam looked at him briefly, trying to reassure him, but Rob reached out for his chin, turning Sam's face so he could see only Rob's eyes. "Take the knife, Sammy." He rested the point against Sam's cheek, and began to press. "Take it or I'll make it more painful for him. And as for _you_… there are ways to hurt you without any pain for me. In fact," Rob whispered against Sam's hair, "it would feel so fucking _good_ for me." He licked the side of Sam's face, tasting the blood from the knife.

Sam didn't know what came first; the kick to Rob's stomach, or the agonising scream at the back of his mind, which could have come from anybody in the room. "Go to hell," Sam spat down at him. He landed another kick to Rob's stomach, trying to ignore the pain in his own. The knife was in his hand. _How did that get there?_ He cut off the ropes bounding Harris's hands to the stool, pushing him away. "Run," he ordered him. Rob was trying to stand up, and Sam felt the knife shake in his hand. He gripped it tightly. "_Run_!" he urged Harris.

He rounded back on Rob, in time for him to swing roughly for Sam's face. Sam dodged it, and landed a punch against Rob's nose for good measure. _Fuck, that felt good_. He heard Harris sobbing, trying to make it across the room with his limbs barely in tact. Sam levelled another hit to Rob's face, sending him stumbling back. The pain continued to sear through them both. Sam grimaced, his grip on the knife loosening, and that was when he realised his mistake. The knife was gone from his hand in the next second, and when Sam turned around, Harris was slumped in a heap by the door.

Seeing the dead body had an instant, sedating effect on Sam. The adrenaline from the fight left his body just as quickly as it had entered. He waited for Rob to attack him, but when he looked over Rob seemed drained as well. He approached the body, kneeling down beside it, and turned him over. _He's dead he's really dead._ Sam heard him, inside his head, but the voice was small and lost. It didn't sound like the man holding him prisoner.

Time passed. Sam didn't know how much, but when Rob finally stood up, Sam's legs felt cramped. Rob said quietly, "You cut my kill short."

_Do you want me to apologise?_

Rob stared at him for a long time, evidently trying to find something that wasn't immediately on display in Sam's face. He walked towards Sam slowly. "I thought you were like me," he said. "I thought if I just gave you the opportunity…" he paused briefly. Then he pulled Sam towards him in a mockery of a hug, their two bodies pressed coldly together, Rob's erratic breath on his cheek as his hands rested on the nape of Sam's neck. "It doesn't matter. It won't be long before we understand each other better." He pulled away reluctantly, but not before Sam saw two tiny images in his mind; huge, red rocks, and lights on a strip. "Time to leave Texas, I think."

"And go where?" He said it convincingly enough. He was sure Rob hadn't felt him inside his head.

"Why would I tell you? So you can contact _him_ again? No, I think you'll be… sedated… for this."

He pushed Sam towards the door. Sam dragged his heels. "The body."

"What about it? We're not taking it with us."

"No, but… it's bad luck to keep his eyes open. Let me close them. Please?"

"Hurry up," Rob said. He opened the door without touching it, letting the lights from the corridor filter into the apartment. Sam crouched down beside the body. As Rob checked for passers-by, Sam swept his hand over Harris's eyes.

And as Rob stepped out into the corridor, Sam dipped his finger into the blood and wrote on the wall next to him, with practised speed, 'Las Vegas'.

* * *

"Detective Saxon and Detective Mendelson, from the Lakeland Precinct. We've been called in to take a look at the crime scene." John Winchester flashed the fake I.D, gazing impassively at the CSI officer. She stared at him suspiciously.

"We've already had a detective here. The body's down at Westridge. What exactly do you need to do?"

"Just an overview," Dean said. "Check you're doing a good job, sweetheart." He flashed his most charming smile, ignoring his father's very definite eye-rolling movement. "That okay with you?"

"Well sure, I guess," the brunette straightened up. "Just would have been convenient if we'd had prior notice."

She let them cross the tape into the spacious apartment, after handing out clear plastic gloves for them to pull on. Dean found himself staring at the stool that he'd seen the man screaming on. He'd dreamt the whole grisly scene, seen it as if he'd been there. And when he'd told Missouri, she'd nodded cryptically. "Sometimes it's easier for the… unaccustomed… to seek you out in sleep. When you don't have a thousand and one thoughts buzzing through your head."

Dean nodded imperceptibly at his father. This was the place.

"Any suspects?"

"Loads," she looked at him strangely. "What the hell do you think? Known paedophile, let out early for good behaviour, living in a fancy-ass apartment in the suburbs. I heard they've brought in some of his… less well-adjusted victims… for questioning."

"Shit. How many kids did this guy…?"

"Over twenty. Of the ones they know about." The CSI officer put her hands on her hips. "Were you even _briefed_?"

"We were just in the area. They needed to send someone in," John answered. "If you'll excuse us, we need to take a look round."

"Tight schedule," Dean said apologetically. She shrugged, wondering off into the kitchen where two men were bagging knifes.

"What the hell? What was Sam _doing_ here?" Dean whispered to his father. "Why would Rob go after this guy?"

"Why do you think?" John asked, looking sickened. He nodded at the blood splatters on the floor, close to their feet. "Look. That's where they found the body. He must have been running for the door."

"Maybe given a chance to escape?"

"Could be."

Even knowing what he did about Christopher Harris, Dean couldn't help feeling a swell of pride for his little brother. He was still fighting. That was the most hope Dean had felt in days.

"But this is where the trail ends," John sighed. "Harris is dead. There's no sign, apart from the blood, that anybody was even here."

"No. Sam wouldn't leave it like that. He knew we'd find this place. There _has_ to be something here. Wait." Dean walked through to the kitchen. The brunette CSI officer turned to look at him expectantly. "Seems like a pretty stright forward murder, all things considered?"

"Yeah, it's by the numbers. We've dusted for fingerprints, but couldn't find anything solid. I don't know if they'll find a match that way."

"And the murderer didn't leave anything else behind?"

"Just the scrawling on the wall. We think it's probably a red herring."

"Scrawling?"

"Look," she brushed past Dean impatiently, leading him back out of the kitchen. Close to the door, by the blood splattering on the floor, 'Las Vegas' had been painted messily onto the wall. "We're not dealing with some fame-hungry serial killer here. I don't think this is his calling card. Looks like someone just wanted to throw us off the scent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do."

She left Dean and John to stare at the wall in front of them. Dean leant in close to his father. "That's Sammy's writing, dad. Look at it. I'd recognise it anywhere."

He glanced at his father, who was nodding slowly, looking vaguely impressed. "Good boy, Sam." He turned to Dean. "Is there enough gas in the Impala to get to Vegas?"


	13. Chapter 13

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 13**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **Man, this chapter was difficult to write. Might come across as a bit disjointed as a result? I don't know. Please let me know what you think!

**Warnings for this chapter:** More sexual threats and references to child abuse. Capslock of doom. General creepiness all round, really.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

The Vegas Strip was the heart of the city, but the dusty outskirts whitewashed the guilty. When Rob kicked open the door of the rented trailer, he decided he would be safe here for the time being. And so would Sammy.

His companion was stretched out on the foldout bed, handcuffed to the headboard. He was sleeping off the effects of the sedative Rob had given him, but now his eyes were flickering sporadically. He was close to waking up. Rob placed the drained whiskey bottle on the cabinet and shifted forward in his chair, reaching his hand out to brush Sam's hair back from his eyes. The jolt between them still sent shivers through his body. He shuddered pleasantly, the warmth of alcohol mixed with a baser pleasure.

"Good afternoon, Sammy."

"It's Sam," the kid murmured. He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the light filtering in through the grimy windows. He cleared his throat, dryness straining the tenacity of his words. "Where are we?"

"We're laying low for a while."

"You're afraid we're going to be caught?" Sam tried to sit up, wincing in pain. He tested his arms, meeting resistance, and sighed, resigned. "For the murder?"

"No," Rob said. Sam snorted.

"Drink whiskey often, do you? You don't seem the type. Maybe you've got something to worry about. The doorman – "

"Is dead. He died on impact. Therefore he is incapable of describing us. There were no witnesses."

"You said –" Sam began to struggle, body squirming, repulsed by his close proximity to Rob. Rob left his chair, leaning over Sam, both hands framing the sides of Sam's pale face. He smiled as Sam sunk into the bed, hazel eyes desperate and pleading. "Don't touch me. You stink."

"You're very easy to manipulate, Sammy. I know just what to say to you, and I know what to do to you. I know what scares you." Sam tried to turn his face away, but Rob held firm. "People hurting and in pain, and you not able to do anything about it - that scares you. It makes you react."

"You're drunk."

"I agree. So you had better not upset me, because I get certain _needs_ after a bottle of whiskey, and you look damn good tied to that bed. Now, let's talk about what happened in Harris's apartment. During the torture."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You contacted Dean."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were in his mind. You told him where we were. How long were you in contact with him, Sammy?"

"I don't know -" Rob slapped him hard, wincing as the pain took his own face. Sam glared at him. "- what you're talking about."

"Could you do it again?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Now? Could you do it now?"

_Like I'd tell you_.

"Let's see," Rob said. He took his hands away, and Sam let his breath out, until he started unzipping Sam's jeans, keeping his eyes on him the whole time, waiting for a reaction. It was almost instantaneous; Sam started to jerk away from his touch, eyes flashing in disbelief.

_Oh please oh God don't do this please._

"Nobody here to save you, Sammy. Where's Dean? Isn't this the part where he runs in, guns blazing?"

"Please don't do this."

Rob finished pulling down Sam's jeans. He straddled him. "I've wanted to do this since I first saw you, Sammy. The thought of you like this, tied up and helpless, it makes me feel so good."

Sam whined as Rob pushed up his jumper, running his hands along his chest, sending jolts of pleasure through both their bodies, making Sam respond against his will, arching upwards to greet Rob's touch. "I can't contact him. I can't turn it off and on," Sam said, gasping, as Rob's mouth worked its way up Sam's neck. "It was a fluke, I swear, I don't know how –" Rob bit his lip. Sam's body jolted upwards again.

"Contact him, Sammy. I want to see how you do it."

"I can't, I can't, oh God…"

"I'm going to be inside you. I'm going to fuck you if you can't contact him."

He smelt of anger and whiskey. He knew that Sam was frightened by the combination, and that he was honestly trying to find Dean. He was close, so close. Rob kissed him, his tongue filling Sam's mouth greedily, his hands reaching for the zipper of his own jeans. Sam bucked one more time, and then his eyes swung shut, seemingly of their own accord. When he opened them again, he was staring at Rob unseeingly, and Rob felt confusion and horror pour through Sam's mind. But it didn't belong to Sam. Rob laughed.

_Dean, I know you can hear me. Understand this. Sam is mine. I'm not giving him up. Go back to hunting other things. Stop hunting us. Because I can see inside your mind now, and if I suspect you're closing in on us, I'll kill your brother. I'll mutilate him so badly you won't be able to recognise his pretty face. And then I'll shoot myself to steal whatever remaining satisfaction you might receive by killing me. I'm not giving him up alive. Leave us, Dean. Sammy is dead to you._

He shut down his thoughts, and he began to squeeze air from Sam's throat, killing the connection. Sam came to, trying to scream, his eyes filled with despair. "Dean!" Rob climbed off Sam. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Sam fighting against his restraints.

"You did well, Sammy," he called out soothingly. "He's finally gone. We're alone now." He came back with a knife. He drew a line along his palm. "And now we need to strengthen the bond again."

* * *

"Dean. Dean." Someone was calling him, but he wanted to go back to Sam. Even though it hurt every fibre of Dean's being to see Sam like that, he wanted to be with him, close to him. "Dean!"

His dad was staring down at him, face grey and taut. Dean winced, turning his head to the side. He felt concrete underneath it, and a blistering pain pounding through his temples.

"What in the hell, Dean? I go to get gas, come back, and you're laid out on the floor screaming at the top of your voice. I thought Sammy was the one who –"

"He is, sir." Dean propped himself up on his elbows, bringing one arm up to press at the stinging in the back of his head. "I don't get visions. Sam was trying to contact me again."

"Did he say anything?"

"No. It was that son of a bitch. He was –" Dean thought about Sam, desperate and scared, and Rob on top of him, too close to him, filled with a sick longing. Dean took in his father's weathered face, his bloodshot eyes and frantic expression. He turned away. "We just need to find them." He didn't tell him what Rob had said. He couldn't afford to believe Rob's threats. "And I have an idea where, sir. Sam looked out of the window. I saw a water tower with Riverton printed on it. We need to find that. We already know they're in Vegas. We need to go. Right now."

"Just one minute." John Winchester grunted, his suspicious nature kicking in; the suspicious nature Dean had inherited, but had no time for at this moment. "You said that Rob spoke to you. How do you know this isn't a trap?"

"I don't, but it's _all_ we've got. Besides, I think Rob might be underestimating Sam. I think that's the best chance we've got. Maybe he thought Sam would black out when he started talking to me, but he didn't. He was there the whole time."

"Fine. You're right." Dean did a mock double take, and his father smiled humourlessly. "We'll find this water tower. We'll scope out the area." He stood up, opening the driver's door. "But I'm driving. You took a bit of a knock there."

"I'm fine," Dean said, but he conceded anyway. His legs felt like jelly underneath him as he stood up. He put a hand to his forehead, adjusting to the spinning, wondering if this was what Sam felt like when he had a vision. "Just drive fast, okay?"

* * *

Sam lay awake deep into the night, the open wound on his left palm throbbing with Rob's blood. Rob was asleep on the next bed, one hand secured on the knife by his bedside, breathing heavily. He'd ruffled Sam's hair before he'd gone to sleep, the sticky blood matting the ends. He hadn't asked Sam to patch him up this time. Sam knew that whatever trust he'd won, he'd lost when he'd contacted Dean back at Harris's place. Now, when Rob looked at him, he had an unsettled look in his eyes.

_Good. Better he's unsure of me. _

It was too dark now to see the Riverton water tower, but Sam knew it was casting a shadow over the trailer, signposting the way. He knew Dean would be looking for it. He thought about Rob's message to Dean. The triumph in his voice, drowning out the jealousy he felt towards him. All it would have done was fuelled Dean's determination. Surely Rob knew that?

As he fell asleep, Sam dreamt Rob's dreams. He was a small child. And Christopher Harris was on top of him. And Rob was begging. _Oh please oh God don't do this please._

Sam and Rob both woke at the same time, gasping. Rob stared at him with cold eyes, and Sam stared back, shivering. "You've been in my head?" he asked. Sam nodded slowly.

"It wasn't intentional, I swear. I just fell asleep and –" he widened his eyes, pleading, as Rob swung his legs over to the side of the bed, staring intently at him. "I didn't mean to see anything," he finished lamely.

"You're getting stronger," Rob said. Sam shook his head. The thought was almost laughable. He'd never felt worse. "Is that the first time you've seen my thoughts?"

"Yes," Sam said. And Rob was inside him, pushing at his own thoughts, looking for an indication of a lie. Sam closed down. The sensation left him feeling stripped. "I think so."

"Fine," Rob said. "I suppose it's only fair. I've been inside _your_ head. You're just reacting to that. It's natural." He approached Sam's bed and pushed him over slightly, climbing next to him. He answered Sam's fearful expression. "I sleep better when I'm close to you, Sammy."

It was even harder to sleep with Rob's hands running through his hair, one arm draped loosely over his shoulder. Sam tried to turn, but Rob held him firmly. Sam imagined he was ten again, curled against Dean's chest. The thought comforted him, and he felt his body relax, his breathing becoming more regular.

_He believed me. Dean's still coming for me._

He was woken up this time by Rob's hands digging into his outstretched wrists. He began to fight, kicking wherever he could. Rob's voice was frantic and awful inside his head.

_WHAT HAVE YOU TOLD DEAN?_

"Nothing!"

_WHAT OTHER THOUGHTS HAVE YOU READ?_

The voice frightened Sam like no other. His traitorous mind began confessing everything, as Sam tried to shut down. But with Rob this close…

_Las Vegas. I saw Las Vegas. I know that's where we are._

"And you've told Dean?"

"No."

_Yes._

Rob stumbled away from Sam's bed. He sat down on a kitchen chair, head between his legs. "Dean's coming?"

"He doesn't know where we are in Vegas," Sam said. Rob's hand shook as he held it up to stop Sam from talking.

"Shut. Up. You little _brat_. I can't trust a word you say." He took a minute to compose himself. Sam tried again, fruitlessly, to break away from his restraints as Rob approached him. Rage glowed beneath his skin. "We need to fix this before he gets here. _Listen_ to me. You're going to do exactly as I say this time."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Spark and the Force - Chapter 14**

**Summary: **Sam's powers attract the attention of a power-hungry empath. He's unwilling to give Sam up. But then, so is Dean…

**Notes: **I haven't forgotten about this story. I have had _endless_ problems connecting to a new internet server, and this site is blocked where I work. I have been wanting to update with all my heart and soul, and the PMs I've received (I can still check my e-mail at work) have made me feel incredibly bad. So, here it is; we're almost at the end, and the next chapter should be up fairly promptly, in no more than a week. Once again, I'm sorry, and I can only hope that people still _want_ to read it!

**Warnings for this chapter:** A bit of violence, but otherwise none.

* * *

Once Dean found Riverton on the A-Z, it wasn't difficult to locate the water tower. It stretched up straight into the night, casting its shadow on a jumble of trailer parks and tiny houses that freckled the outskirts of Vegas. Dean looked up from the map, heart sinking. "They could be anywhere."

"I don't think so," John said. He wound down his window. "Smell that?"

A faint autumnal smell entered the car, reminding Dean of bonfires and burning bodies. "A fire. Could be a coincidence."

"Never really believed in coincidences myself." John steered left, manoeuvring the Impala down narrow roads and dust tracks, as the heat and smell intensified with each half mile, until smoke started clouding up the windows, and they saw flames licking the roofs of trailers, gold edges painting the night.

"Son of a bitch," Dean and John said in unison. People were screaming; pulling each other out of the creaking buildings. There were no fire engines in sight. Dean automatically opened his door, but John leant across, gripping his arm.

"He did this before," Dean said, voice thick with smoke. He tried to shrug off his dad's grip. "The diner. He set it on fire so there wouldn't be any trace of him. He did this as well. I know it."

"Well, it was recent. Fire service isn't even here yet. And I doubt that Sammy is anywhere in there. We need to move on."

"We're just going to leave these people here? We can _help_."

John responded angrily to this. "You want to let him get away again? Take Sammy God knows where?"

"No, but…" Dean didn't get a chance to finish. They were hurtling away from the trailer park before he could even register. He quickly slammed the door shut. It felt like fleeing. At that moment he wanted Sam next to him like nothing else. Sam would have insisted on staying to help. Sam wouldn't have let families who had nothing to with Rob Taylor burn in their homes.

Sam would have understood what Dean was feeling. He'd have agreed.

The suburban roads eventually gave way to a highway heading straight out of Vegas. The smoke had cleared out here, and Dean saw dusty plains ahead of him, barren and empty and hiding absolutely nothing. His heart began to pound.

* * *

Rob saw something break inside of Sam as he pushed him into the car. He sat, unresisting, watching the flames dance along the petrol lines; through windows and doors, filling the warm night air with a new kind of heat. Helplessness sparked dully in his hazel eyes.

"Just a few drunks and wasters," Rob said. He didn't bother restraining Sam; knew he wouldn't try escaping anymore, that something fundamental had changed tonight. Dean was close, and blood was in the air. The best Rob could do was as get as far out of Vegas as possible. On the open road he might stand a chance of escape.

The radio crackled on underneath Rob's gaze, both his hands still on the steering wheel. He flipped through the stations, until the familiar harmonica in _The River_ by Springsteen filled the empty gap of silence between him and Sam. Rob sang along pointedly, hoping to get one last reaction from Sam. _"But I remember us riding in my brother's car…" _Sam's eyes flickered. He continued to stare straight ahead. _"Now those memories come back to haunt me, they haunt me like a curse."_

"Dean is coming to kill you," Sam said, his voice gentle and breaking beneath the rumble of the motor.

"I don't think so."

"We both know it, Rob. Stop kidding yourself."

"Then he's an idiot," Rob said simply. It was time. He could feel energy behind them, energy which wasn't Sam's, and wasn't his. Angry and vengeful, and heading straight for him. "He knew what would happen."

He squeezed the steering wheel, and the engine began to heat and sizzle through it, until the car grinded to a halt. He pushed down the locks on the door. The windows began to shake.

_Is this how we're going to die? You're not even going to head to the Grand Canyon?_

"You're making jokes, Sammy? There's nothing funny about this."

_But we're connected. Aren't you afraid of killing me?_

"I'll sever the connection before…" He looked over at Sam. The kid was silent, unafraid. He still thought Dean would rescue him. The realisation made Rob simmer; same as when he'd first seen Sam with Dean, seen the way that Dean had looked at Sam, safe in the knowledge that he was the most important thing in his life.

Rob brought his hands to Sam, round his neck, and squeezed and squeezed. Sam groaned deliciously, squirming against Rob, bringing his hands up to Rob's arms. The engine continued to overheat, shaking through to the structure of the car. Rob was cutting Sam loose, and it felt wrong, like being stripped and abandoned. He screamed as the air began to rip between them.

Sam was crying, his grip tightening. "Please, no. Please, I need you," he begged. Rob fell back against the car door like he'd been stunned. He breathed heavily.

_I can't do it I can't hurt you,_ he told Sam. The words came out of him unguarded. He pulled Sam towards him, wrapping his arms around him, and felt the kid shaking against him. Rob knew then, for certain, that he couldn't kill Sam; he was part of him now, and maybe that was the best weapon he had against Dean Winchester.

"It's okay," he murmured against Sam's hair. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

He saw another memory as he held Sam close. Dean, aged nineteen, gun in hand, telling a fifteen year old, blood-streaked Sam that nobody was going to hurt him now. The stench of a rotten body by their feet.

Rob snatched the memory away. He went deeper into Sam's mind, as Sam started to struggle. Every good memory Sam had of Dean; every time Dean had saved him, laughed with him, hugged him or ruffled his hair; Rob took as much as he could, greedily, feeding off it. He was doing too much too soon; it was making them both weak, but he couldn't stop. _He hurt you, Sammy, all he's ever done is hurt you, don't you remember? He's never done anything good for you, he's always resented you, and your father loved him more. Remember, Sammy, you have to remember._

A voice broke through this. He didn't hear what it said, but he felt an arm around his neck, and he was pulled out onto the hard floor. Pain shot through his head, and he screamed at the same time as Sam. John Winchester was more imposing than Sam's memories had given him credit for, but none of Sam's memories had ever remembered him this furious. John levelled a kick to Rob's head, cursing unintelligibly, and then he pulled him up, hands shaking as he grasped Rob's t-shirt. He punched him again, drawing blood.

"I'll kill you," he said. Rob spat out a mouthful blood against John's shoulder.

"No, you won't."

The next set of punches landed on his stomach. Sam was still screaming, and the anguish in his voice shot through Rob like a thousand hornet stings. _Hold on Sammy, just hold on. I'm not leaving you._

"Dad, wait! There's something's wrong!" Dean yelled. John let go of Rob. Rob slumped down to the floor, clutching his stomach, and then looked over to Sam. Dean had pulled him out of the car, and Sam's position mimicked Rob's almost exactly. He backed away from Dean as soon as Dean let go of his shoulder.

"What the fuck have you done to him?" Dean demanded. Rob managed a weak smile, not answering yet. "Sam was reacting while you were hitting that bastard, dad. He was in _pain_." Dean turned to Sam, who was now slumped against the car bumper, eyeing Dean fearfully. "What's he done to you, Sammy?"

"Get away from us," Sam said unsteadily. "Leave us alone."

Rob laughed at the collective expression on Dean and John's faces; dumb confusion masked by fear and anger. He stood up. John took a step forward, unsure what his next move would be. Dean tore his eyes away from Sam to look over. "You heard him," Rob said. "He doesn't want to be anywhere close to you."

"What have you done to him?"

"We're part of each other now. That's all you need to know. Hurt one, and you hurt us both." Rob took a step towards Sam. John shoved him back. "Kill one of us," Rob said slowly, "and risk losing the other."

_They thought they'd just come back and take you_, Rob said to Sam. Sam's eyes reached Rob. He stared across miserably.

"Why haven't you tried to stop us yet?" Dean asked. He was tense, rigid, aching for a fight. "You can move things with your mind, can't you? Why haven't you made a hub cap fly at my head or something? I'm sure you'd _love_ to."

"Maybe I'm waiting," Rob said. He knew it would take a recuperation period before the telekinesis returned to him, and he didn't like how quickly Dean had picked up on that.

"We need to get out of here," John said. He had been keeping one eye on the road and now moved towards Rob. "Sorry, Sammy."

_He's going to knock you out_, Sam told Rob helpfully. Rob ducked as the punch came towards his face.

_How did you know that?_

Sam frowned. _He's predictable_.

It was the last thing Rob heard. John moved with a speed that defied his age. As Rob looked back around, the fist impacted against his face. He slumped to the floor, and, before he saw darkness, he saw Sam's eyes snap shut.


End file.
